


Mad World

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The thought that they could lose any of this – whatever peace and friendship and love they've found – scares Sam more than anything else. The fragility of it is almost too much to bear.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad World

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Author:** [](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyoka**](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam/OFC, OC and canon characters  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Word Count:** ~37,500  
>  **Warnings:** language, mild violence, explicit sexuality  
>  **Beta:** [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Notes:** Due to size this episode is being split into two parts, the first airing here tonight and the second airing this coming week.  
>  **Author's Note:** Thanks to [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/) for contributing scenes to this chapter.  
>  **Art:** Chapter banner by [](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/profile)[**smilla02**](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/) ; digital drawings by **[Pickles](http://preservedcucumbers.tumblr.com/)** , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/27728.html)** , and the OFC digital sketch by [](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/profile)[**smallworld_inc**](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/), which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/27418.html)** (art contains spoilers for the chapter).

  


"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.  
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."  
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.  
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."  
―Lewis Carroll, _Through the Looking Glass_  


"The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it is immense.  
We send starships. We fall in love."  
—Jeanette Winterson, _Gut Symmetries_  


  


A quarter past midnight, and the heat's unbearable. Tara twists around in her bed, her short legs tangling in the thin sheets. Her bedroom windows are cracked wide, allowing the moonlight to seep in across the scarred pine floorboards of her room. There's the barest hint of a soft breeze coming in. It's not enough, though.

It's early April, but it feels like the dead of summer. Tara's skin is damp with sweat, her cotton nightgown sticking to her plump thighs as she climbs out of her bed and walks over to the open window.

Mama spent all day in the garden, and where the moonlight spills across the yard Tara can see the rows of newly-planted vegetables and herbs. The rest of the yard is cast in thick shadows, and the long limbs of the oaks circle around the house like protective arms.

She's been sixteen for all of fifteen minutes, and already she's feeling the need to leave, to find some semblance of a life outside of the small confines of La Grange, Florida. She thinks of her Mama sleeping just down the hall and of her Papa, toiling away on some big oil rig deep out in the Gulf. Small towns like La Grange that sit at the doorway to the Everglades mostly deal in fishing and tourism, but Tara wants something different: she wants to sing, to go somewhere with a stage big enough to hold the big sounds she can belt out from deep in her chest.

As an only child, Tara feels guilty at the thought of leaving. A part of her doesn't want to leave her parents alone. She really doesn't. But then there's Ellie, with her big green eyes and her bigger dreams of running off to New York City and performing on Broadway, free of her troubled family and bad memories. And Tara had promised she'd follow her best friend, anywhere, everywhere. To Hell and back if she had to.

Right now though, Tara only has to follow Ellie to their favorite spot. She pauses in front of the window, hesitating for only a moment before turning around and reaching for her discarded clothes. She changes out of her cotton gown, and pulls on her denim cut-offs first, followed by her t-shirt and ratty sneakers.

From her nightstand, Tara picks up her cellphone and flashlight, before digging through her backpack to make sure she's packed enough snacks for the night. She hopes tonight she can coax Ellie out of her dark funk. The other girl's been feeling listless and moody lately, suffering from bad dreams and restless thoughts. Whenever they go camping though, things seem to get a hundred times better for both of them. Deep in their swamp hideaway, they can huddle together in their sleeping bags, making up stories until all they know is laughter and treasured secrets.

Tara's heart thumps loudly in anticipation, and she's smiling as she stuffs pillows under her comforter on her bed, a precautionary act in case Mama decides to peek her head through the door to check on her in the early twilight hours.

She climbs out of the window without a backwards thought, sliding her legs over the sill and hopping down onto the spongy grass of the yard. The air is heavy, and there's a mugginess to it that she's known only in the August rainy season. Tara sucks in a lungful, breathing in the cloying, sweet smells of jasmine and the blossoming marsh flowers.

Leaving the familiarity of her yard, Tara makes her way slowly through the surrounding wilderness, fingers trailing over the thick trunks of the cypress that dot the hiking trail and lead toward the inner marshlands. The moon is bright and full, and with its light Tara is able to move quickly, her flashlight beam dancing across the soft ground. After a minute she stops to look back, and the house has already faded into the moonlit distance.

Nights in the swamp are full of sounds; so alive. There's a river nearby, and Tara can hear the water gurgling, the rhythm mixing with the high chorus of peepers and cicadas. The path to the marsh is one she knows by heart. Even in the midnight cover of dark, she can make her way through the murky population of cypress and tupelo. Damp moss hangs down from the trees like curtains, the strings tangling in her curly hair as she passes beneath the treetop canopy. Tulips, magnolias, azalea, and long-stemmed wild flowers dot the saw-grass paths before her, their perfume thick on the breeze. She doesn't worry about the wildlife – alligators have never troubled them this far north, preferring to sun themselves along the river banks following the swampy Senoni Trail that lead further into the Everglades.

After twenty minutes of tramping through the muddy grass, Tara makes her way to the open field hidden at the end of the hiking trail. It's her place; _her and Ellie's place_ , a grassy mound of earth that's more island than anything else, nestled as it is by a small, dark pond bordered by tall, skinny cattails. It's the closest thing she's ever had to a secret hideaway, and it's here that she and Ellie spend summers playing make-believe, browning themselves in the Southern sun and getting high off the damp swamp air.

In the center of the clearing is the tiny tumble-down shack they've made their home away from home. Tara pauses when she's only a few feet away, letting her flashlight beam bounce across the cracked doorway. The shack is blackened by heat and water, its thatched straw roof held together with spit and a prayer.

"Ellie!" she calls, her nerves sparking bright. "I'm here!"

Ellie is always the first to arrive, wanting to spend as much time away from her troubled family as possible. When Tara sees no movement from the shack, she frowns, straining her hearing against the distant sound of flowing water and the racket of insects.

"Ellie!"

Another few moments, but nothing in response. Worry settles in Tara's chest, her breath rushing out in a panting exhale. Did Ellie get caught sneaking out at home? She walks up to the shack and pushes in the door, expecting to find the place empty. Instead she finds nothing of the sort: there are candles lit in a circular pattern in the middle of the wooden floor, splashing amber light across the tiny room. In the center of the circle sits Ellie. The teenager's long legs are curled under her body, her eyes closed as she rocks back and forth.

"Ellie, what in the world…what are you _doing_?" Tara whispers, voice catching in her throat. The breeze whistles between the cracks in the shack, bringing with it a sad, mournful sound. She shivers, folding her arms across her chest. Something like fear settles in her heart; this all feels _wrong_.

"Ellie?" Tara asks again. Ellie doesn't answer, instead she begins to hum, her rocking motion quickening.

"Ellie, what are you doing? You're scaring me!" Tara says again, her voice growing louder. This isn't like Ellie at all. Tara raises her flashlight and directs the beam into the shadows of the shack's one room, looking for some reason behind her friend's odd behavior. That's when she sees it: the writing, literally, _on the walls_. Tara's eyes widen as they pan across the old wooden panels, which are all covered from floor to ceiling in large blocky text, written in ink dark as the night. _Blood_

Tara can't work enough moisture into her mouth to say a word about the blood. And she can't understand the scrawled words at all. It's not a language she's even seen or heard spoken. It's nonsense, a gibberish graffiti tainting her secret place.

"What is this?!" Tara shouts it this time, wanting, _needing_ , to understand what's going on. Fear traps her, and something else.

Ellie stops then. Sudden and sharp. Her entire body stills, but her eyes never open. A long, tenuous moment passes before the other girl begins to speak, but the sounds are foreign to Tara's ears. Ellie is chanting, strange sounds tumbling over themselves. The mish-mash of words are sing-song-like; a prayer maybe, a call. Tara can't decipher them.

Tara wonders for a moment if this is a chant she should recognize at all. She remembers sitting on her grandma's lap as a young child, hearing the history of the Miccosukee her mother's side of her family descended from. But this is nothing like the tribal songs she grew up hearing. This is something dark, something that sends the hair on her arms standing to attention. This is something _wrong_. She can feel it down to her bones, intuition and instinct both.

"Ellie?" Tara whispers her friend's name into the gloom of the old shack. The chanting doesn't pause, but Ellie's eyes do open. Yet, there's nothing of recognition in her gaze, nothing of true sight.

Tara hesitantly steps closer, but Ellie continues to look through her as if she isn't there. Her best friend's eyes are glazed over and distant, and Tara does the only thing she can think to do. She touches her. She places her hand on her friend's shoulder and shakes her. The chanting and rocking both stop, but in that moment Tara realizes her mistake. Ellie seizes up as if having a fit, her entire body gone stock still beneath Tara's hand.

The screaming begins then. Ellie's cries shoot out like bullets, loud enough to pierce through the night and to shock it silent. Tara is frozen in place. She has never seen anything like it: her friend's mouth opens so wide, and her strangled howls fill the entirety of the shack.

When the screaming stops, everything is suddenly _too_ quiet. No rushing river water, no sound of crickets and owls and birdsong. Just a dense silence, thicker than the muddy waters of the surrounding lagoons. It's so cold now too, and the chill leaves gooseflesh up and down Tara's arms.

Ellie drops to the ground with a loud thud, like the strings have been cut from a marionette doll.

"Ellie! Ellie, oh my God!" Tara yells, falling to her knees and pulling her friend up from the floor, drawing her limp body closer. "What's wrong? Tell me!" Tara feels hot tears falling down her cheeks, spilling onto Ellie shoulders. She doesn't care.

Ellie looks at Tara then, her pale face clenched in pain. "Tara?" she whispers, recognition finally settling in.

"It's me. I'm here," Tara says. "What's happening to you?"

Ellie clutches at her stomach suddenly, as blood begins spilling from her mouth. She gurgles around her moaned words. "You have…you have to _run_."

"No, no, no," Tara says, swiping at her friend's mouth with trembling hands.

There's a plea in Ellie's gaze as she turns her scared, dark eyes on Tara. "Please."

Tara's sobbing now, desperate and fear-laced. "I don't know what to do," she croaks, hands patting at her friend's still too-taut body. Tara knows that right now she sounds like a child. Not the sixteen-year old woman she was meant to be celebrated as tonight. She sounds broken, raw, needy. She needs Ellie to snap out of it. She reaches a hand out to tangle in her friends t-shirt, the cotton gone dark with blood.

"It's too late," Ellie whispers, voice rougher than gravel as she struggles to find words. She raises a hand to Tara's cheek and presses her palm there gently. A caress. "He's coming. He's awake."

Tara's catches Ellie's wrist, and she can feel the bones under her skin, the pull of her muscles. The slowing of her pulse beat. "Who? Who's coming?"

" _The dreamer has stopped sleeping_ ," Ellie whispers, nothing more than breath and sound.

"Is this about your dreams?" Tara says, frantic, grasping for any explanation. The dreams. Nightmares really; visions of horror so immense they had Ellie sneaking into Tara's room to share her bed for the past five weeks. Tara had only held her friend close, never asking questions, never pushing for explanations, but now regret takes hold, regret that she never asked for more information, never delved deeper into her friend's troubled mind.

"It'll be okay," Ellie says, and she manages to smile at Tara. Tara's throat burns and she swallows. Ellie's smiling like there's nothing wrong, like she doesn't know the craziness surrounding them. In that moment Ellie's smile reminds Tara of warm summer nights, the way the moonlight glints off the pond. Their shared laughter and stolen kisses.

"Ellie," Tara says again, voice cracking around the name.

"Hush," Ellie's words are soft, distant, like they've gone off and gotten lost in the night. "They've come for me and all the others who truly see. We herald his coming."

"You're confused again," Tara whispers, stroking fingers across Ellie's feverish brow. "They're just nightmares, nothing real. No one's coming."

"He is real," Ellie says, her voice rough and deep and strange. "And they've come to bring me to him."

Tara frowns, but before she can ask who 'they' are, she feels it: the sudden change in the air of the room, the way sound rushes back in like the popping of a bubble. Terror rushes through her body, sharp and fierce enough to send her to feet. Tara hears footsteps circling around her, can feel the devil's breath on her back. She shivers, but before she can spin around to face the new arrivals, before she can even react to them, something hits her from behind. Pain flares sudden and bright; it sends needle pricks from her head to the soles of her feet. She tastes blood in her mouth, liquid copper across her tongue.

Some part of her is still waiting to wake up, thinking this is all a bad dream, a madness she caught from Ellie's own night terrors. But the feel of the blood dripping down from the back of her head, the feel of the sharp pain winding throughout her body: it's all too real, too much. Something solid crushes against her back, and the pain intensifies. Air rushes out of her lungs as she falls hard to the ground. She's sobbing into the muddy floor of the shack, whispering and crying. She's a child calling on her best friend to help her. "Ellie, oh God, please," she sobs, but her friend is chanting again. There are more people chanting now, and it's almost beautiful, reverential. Their voices fill the cabin, fill the night, drowning out all the life in the swamp and everything living in the world.

  


Something wakes him from a dream of being sliced open. That something has a rhythm, a cadence. It has words, albeit ones he doesn't recognize. The sound of whispered chanting moves him from sleep to sudden consciousness. Dean grunts, wiping at his eyes, trying to get his bearings in the dark motel room, to shake off the memories of his dream, of Alastair's touch. He always expects to feel blood on his hands when he wakes up, for his naked body to be smeared with it. But it's only sweat on his chilled skin now, and this time the screams he hears are not his own.

_Cas_.

Dean stumbles to his feet, and instinct has him reaching for the knife under his pillow and the Glock on his nightstand even before his eyes are fully open. His legs are sleep-wobbly as he struggles to right himself, before he casts his eyes over the shadows of the room. It's early, the sun just barely spreading itself across the horizon. The light reaching the room is watery, a soft gray that tints more than illuminates.

The muffled chanting continues, and Dean follows the sound, knowing what he will find, fearing it. He sets his gun and knife on the desk he passes before moving quickly to the bathroom and throwing the door open wide.

Even in the darkness he recognizes the figure hunched against the bathtub. Dean steps into the room, and the tile is cool and hard under his feet. He doesn't say anything, only presses a hand against Castiel's bare shoulder. The angel shudders, and Dean sees the motion travel down the sculpted muscles of his friend's back. They are both naked, having slept that way. Dean feels raw and vulnerable with nothing on to protect him, but he knows Castiel must feel much the same way.

Dean squeezes Castiel's shoulder again, and the confused chanting stops, leaving the room in silence. The angel comes around slowly, blinking up at Dean with wide, owlish eyes. "Dean?"

"I'm here, Cas," Dean whispers with a smile. Castiel turns his body fully toward the sound of his voice, eyes trailing over Dean. Light from the bathroom window falls over the both of them, adding a soft milky shine to their naked skin.

"Oh," Castiel says suddenly, and Dean can see the understanding dawning in his eyes. "Sleep walking again?"

"Sleep walking, sleep screaming, _and_ sleep chanting," Dean says on a soft sigh. "You alright now?"

"I don't remember what I was dreaming about," Castiel says, words almost toneless. It's the same refrain he's been reciting for months after every nightmare sends him out of his bed. Castiel groans, the frustration evident in the tightening of his body.

Dean clears his throat, kneeling down to be at eye level with the angel. He settles his back against the cool porcelain of the toilet and places a hand on Castiel's knee. "Remember what we talked about? Reaching out to Missouri? Seeing if she can get a better picture of these dreams of yours. Figure out what's going on with you."

"It's too dangerous," Castiel says, shaking his head. "Mortals with sight shouldn't play around in an angel's head like that. You know what happened to the last psychic who tried to see too much."

"You burned her eyes out," Dean mutters, his own frustration crowding out his fear.

"Not on purpose," Castiel says, reaching out a hand to capture Dean's own. He laces their fingers together and adds, "I would not mean to cause Missouri harm either, but something could happen. I don't wish to cause her injury. I quite like her."

Dean smiles, curling their finger tighter together. "She quite likes you too. Wants us to come by soon so she can fatten you up with her biscuits."

"I would like that," Castiel says on a soft laugh.

Dean squirms a bit, the coldness of the bathroom tile sinking into his skin. Castiel seems to notice, because his hold on Dean becomes tighter, and he uses his superior strength to pull Dean to his feet and to lever himself off the floor. "Let's go back to bed, get warm again," he says when Dean shoots him a scolding look.

Dean grunts, but doesn't fight the manhandling as Castiel leads them back to their bed in the dawn-lit motel room. They landed a king-size this time, and Dean's been spending as much time in it as possible over the course of the weekend. They haven't had much time to just laze around since leaving Bobby's. They've been on the road steadily for the past two weeks, and no one's been getting much sleep or downtime with the number of cases they've run across.

The world's gone to shit. _Again_.

And Dean can't shake the feeling it has something to do with them. Dean rubs a hand over his face. Sighs. "You sure you're okay, man?"

Castiel looks up at him from where he's currently tugging the sheets and blankets back onto the bed. Dean's a kicker when he's sleeping, and more often than not their blankets end up on the floor so that he and Cas have to curl together for warmth during the night. Cas often jokes that the habit's just Dean's subconscious desire for them to 'cuddle', but that's just the sort of chick-flick nonsense Dean is sure Sammy's been filling the angel's head with.

Castiel is silent for a moment, watching the bedspread like it holds all the answers. He's pale in the cool light of the coming dawn, his blue eyes cloudy with thought. But the dark lines around his eyes are deep enough to stand out even in the shadows of the room. "Bad dreams are nothing for us to fear."

Dean thinks about his own dreams and grimaces. "Yeah, right."

"Let's sleep, Dean," Castiel says quietly, and Dean knows that Castiel is tired, bone tired like he is himself. That taking Dean to bed is Castiel's way of asking Dean not to dwell on something they can't solve right now.

Dean sighs, wanting, needing to dwell on it. Just once. "Cas, we can't keep ignoring the elephant in the room. This shit is getting serious. It's getting—"

Castiel drops the blanket he was folding and arches his head up stubbornly, the white of his eyes luminous as he locks gazes with Dean across the distance of the bed between them. He turns to face Dean, shoulders straight, fists clenched as if readying for a fight. Dean can see something smoldering and angry moving behind his friend's eyes. When Castiel speaks again, his voice is hard, tight. "Dean, I'm asking you to leave it be."

Dean shakes his head, not ready to let his friend win this time. "Dammit, Cas," he mutters. "Why?"

Castiel clenches up, his jaw working silently as he looks away from Dean. The hard lines of his naked body are taut, bristling with pent-up energy. He's angry, Dean can tell. But Dean's not sure if Castiel is angry at Dean or at himself.

There's a long, tension-filled hush before Castiel breaks it. "Maybe this is my penance," he whispers. "My punishment for all my sins. Remember what Claire said? About living with this…thinking about everything I did."

Dean closes his eyes, the tightness in his chest squeezing until it's hard to breathe. "Look at me, _Castiel_." He says the angel's full name, needing to feel its perfect weight on his tongue.

Castiel meets his eyes again, and Dean doesn't hesitate when he says, "We've suffered enough. We've been punished enough. If you think your father's not done seeing us suffer for our sins, then I hate to say this man, but he's a sadistic sonofabitch as well as an absentee asshole."

Castiel doesn't flinch, doesn't react at all. Only says, "My father is dead, and there is nothing holy about me anymore. I am not just fallen, I am damned."

Castiel's face is a smooth mask of indifference at the admission, but Dean can see beneath the layers to the truth underneath. The fear and the anger, the jagged, knife-edge of darkness they've both spent their entire lives navigating. Dean shakes his head, feeling some of his own rage at their fates threatening to boil over. He says, voice hard and shameless: "Then God damn us both."

Castiel leaps across the bed at that, taking Dean down with him onto the mattress, pushing his body against Dean until they're wrestling for control more than anything else. Castiel presses his face against Dean's neck and whispers, breath panting again his ear, "Don't speak like that."

"Maybe you should try taking your own damn advice," Dean grunts, pushing Castiel onto his back and sliding their naked bodies together. They've both been testy with each other lately, crawling out of their skin as the miles pass beneath them. They're sleepless and edgy, needing this locked-away time together as a way to not only blow off steam, but to feel the base physicality of their bond ignite, burn and flare until they're both just smoke and embers left in the wake of each other's fire.

Dean can feel that fire filling him now, roaring wild as Castiel slides his cock over Dean's balls. Castiel growls when Dean thrusts their hips together, shoving the angel down into the mattress and holding him there. Dean feels Castiel's dick swell and throb against his own, feels the pulses of wet heat as the angel comes undone beneath him.

Castiel licks and kisses words into Dean's mouth, and these are words Dean actually recognizes, snatches of Enochian and Hebrew, Latin and Sumerian. It doesn't take long for Castiel to come back to himself, and before Dean has the time to contemplate all the places he wants to lick across his friend's taut body, Castiel grabs Dean by the shoulders and flips him over onto his back. He fits their hips back together again and grinds home against Dean, their cocks sliding in the mess of Castiel's come. The angel is already hardening again, and Dean is moaning, _Jesus Christ Cas, more_ , as Castiel's hands dig into his hips, urging them faster, pushing them harder. Dean's whispering back in broken English, dropping hot, heavy kisses down Castiel's neck while Castiel holds Dean still underneath him, rocking and rutting until they’re both swearing, shouting into each other's mouths, leaving finger bruises along each other's hips.

Dean shudders and twists, crying out a sharp shout as he shoots, spilling hot and thick all over Castiel's belly. He comes so hard he's momentarily blinded, moaning helplessly as he mouths at the tattoo on Castiel's collarbone, as he slides his hands down Castiel's sweat-slick back, squeezing at his asscheeks to pull the angel tighter against himself. They continue to rock into each other, spent cocks moving slow and lazy together in the mess they've made.

They kiss again, after, because it's too hard to talk, and this is okay, this is good. This is Cas, and this is Dean, and sometimes this is how they are when they're together. Fire and heat, and pent-up aggression, and the slow, calm cool-down. The weighty silence left in the aftermath is always louder than any words.

  


Dean takes a long shower, and he has it so hot it leaves him pink, wrinkled, and raw. When he steps out of the stall, drying his hair with the rough motel towel, he sucks in the foggy steam left behind. The motel is silent around him, Castiel gone with Sam to pick up dinner from the food court in the nearby mall.

Dean wraps his towel around his waist and exits the bathroom, sitting on the unmade bed. He stretches out his legs, running his fingers over his right knee. He fractured his kneecap pretty badly on a solo hunt when he was twenty-five. Even though it took almost two months to recover fully, it was never quite the same after. In the years following, it sometimes would lock up with the weather or a wrong twist running down an alley. He never told his dad about it, or Sam even. It was just something Dean lived with, learned to manage; it was just another painful war-injury that reminded him what happened when he got dumb, got careless, or got distracted. But in his post-hell resurrection, his old knee injury was healed. All his old scars were healed by Castiel.

Sometimes Dean misses the ache. The memory of how the bones had never set quite right, the shitty self-medicating he did to get through the pain when he was alone in his motel room, Sammy gone to Stanford, Dad gone to God knows where. The way it would seize up in the months after, how it would throb with an arthritic ache in anticipation of a nasty cold front.

The pain was something that made sense to him; maybe that's why he misses it. It took Dean a long time to get used to his new, post-Hell body. This new skin. Years of being bruised, beaten, and broken on the hunt, followed by years of being taken apart, piece by piece, by Alastair's skillful hands, and Dean never knew what it was to feel truly whole, to feel put together in the _right_ way. But Castiel had restored him. Castiel had healed him. Castiel had tried to fit him back together.

Some days it feels like the angel, fallen and damned as he claims to be, is still trying to stitch Dean back together. He's not using his grace to do it these days, just his all-too-human hands. Just his words, and his presence, and his stubborn stoicism.

If Dean could return the favor, he would. Heal Cas like Cas healed him. Take away the shitty dreams and the unforgivable mistakes. Take away the past and start over. Start fresh, with clean slates all around. It's something he once asked of Sam and Bobby after Rufus passed: _Life is short, and ours are shorter than most. We gonna spend it wringing our hands? Something's going to get us, eventually. And when my guts get ripped out, just so you two know, we're good. Blanket apology for all the crap that anybody's done, all the way around_. But maybe that's not possible for them after all. Maybe they're too broken. Maybe if they were different people…if they were even _people_ to begin with. Instead of fallen angels and fallen men, token pieces in a chess game played by dicks with bigger agendas.

Maybe they've seen too much to go back. They've all seen each other at their worse after all. Broken, wrecked and devastated, torn to pieces. They've seen each other at their best too: laughing and drinking and giddy, and feeling loved. It's family; that's what this is. This is family. Sammy, who's been Dean's brother, his kid, and his partner in crime his entire life. Cas, the angel on their shoulders, this badass unexpected force of nature that knocks Dean on his ass time and time again. Castiel, the irresistible force to Dean's immovable object. The missing piece to their entire story.

Dean presses his head into his palms, breathing in deep and smiling, feeling hot with the knowledge that they've made it this far. He's jolted from his thoughts by the ringing motel phone. He hurries to answer, grunting a "hello" into the receiver.

"Turn the TV to Channel 4 news," Sam says through the staticky connection.

Dean frowns. "Everything okay? You and Cas okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam rushes out. "We're fine. We're still in the mall, and we saw the news playing on one of the TVs in the electronics store. Thought you needed to see it. Let us know what you make of it. We'll be home in a few."

Dean says his goodbyes and sets the receiver down. He crosses to the bed and slumps onto it before grabbing the remote. He could have grilled Sam about the news, but he's still pretty exhausted from last night. The vent above his head is sending down a cooling mist of air, and his agitation lessens as he flips on the TV and finds the right channel. It's almost six-thirty, and the evening news is still on.

It's a breaking news story: a shot of a cordoned-off stretch of swamp and a news anchorwoman with too much eye makeup speaking into the camera, blond hair bouncing as she turns to motion toward the tree-lined backdrop.

It takes Dean a moment to realize why he's not hearing anything. The TV's muted, and when he finds the button to restore the sound, he only catches the end of the reporter's sentence. But it's enough.

"…more than a dozen missing," she's saying, and Dean sighs, noticing the searchlights shining down over the trees and the sound of a helicopter in the background.

Dean reads the news bar scrolling across the screen, his mind calculating how long it would take to get there. The Everglades, he muses. He hasn't been that way since he was a kid.

Dean presses the volume again, listening closely to the newscast, trying to see if these disappearances are anything like what they've been seeing. The reporter is interviewing family members now, and Dean watches numbly as she parades around a grief-stricken mother, a worried boyfriend, and a crying friend.

He closes his eyes, listening to the urgency in their voices. Something bad is happening out there, Dean knows. Something bad is happening _everywhere_. The newscasters transition to talking about the spate of strange crimes rocking the state, and Dean has to hit the mute button again, has to drown out the evidence that something's going on that could destroy everything he's been trying so hard to build.

  


They've been crisscrossing the Florida coast for just over two weeks now, tracking odd weather patterns and dark omens, news report after news report detailing strange electrical storms, sudden mysterious fogs, meteor showers, and swaths of inexplicable animal mutilations. In Delance, Florida, on the night of the spring equinox, every child under the age of ten was found wandering around at two in the morning without any memory of where they'd been. Two weeks later in Shelton, the entire population of the town – all two-hundred and thirty-six people – simply vanished without a trace.

The local authorities are saying it's the work of some cult, a global network of fringe dwellers claiming it's the end of the world, celebrating through ritualistic kidnappings and mass suicides. The federal government, on the other hand, argues that it's some new terrorist network; in fact it's every national security threat come to life. Sam would laugh it if were funny. But watching the authorities and world leaders run around with their heads up their asses isn't the least bit _funny_. It's scary as fuck, especially since neither he nor Dean have any idea what's at the root of the shit-storm.

Sam lets out a deep exhale, turning the dial on the radio, tired of listening to the talking heads on NPR report the wild guesses being thrown around by the Department of Homeland Security.

"A sleeper cell, my ass," Sam mutters, choosing a top forty station instead. Kanye's rapping about touching the sky as Sam's eyes return to the spread of grassy hillside he's been winding the Impala around for the last half-hour. The driver's-side window is rolled down, and the sharp smell of sand and salt fills the car.

He's driving through the Saldan Valley, toward the Everglades, and here the road follows the Atlantic in a way that is all-too familiar. The last time Sam came through this part of Florida was his sophomore year at Stanford. He went camping in the hilly seaside valley over spring break, and he remembers impressing his friends with his wilderness skills, years of sleeping rough in the wilds of America finally coming in handy. But Stanford seems a lifetime ago now, and something sour weighs down the memory of it, a lasting bitterness he feels every time he thinks about that time in his life, when he thought he could run away from everything, somehow outrun the family curse. Escape. When he thought he could have a life that didn't involve blood and pain and constant loss. _Jess_.

The sea breeze whips at Sam's hair and tugs at the collar of his shirt. Sam glances in the rearview mirror, feeling a soft smile creep along his face as he sees his brother and Cas sleeping soundly, wrapped around each other in the backseat, covered by Sam's old, tattered wool blanket. The thought that they could lose any of this – whatever peace and friendship and love they've found – scares Sam more than anything else. The fragility of it is almost too much to bear.

  


Pilled high on the passenger-seat next to Sam is a stack of yellowing newspapers from towns across Florida, their weather reports and crime blotters circled with bleeding red marker. Cas has been tracking the patterns, trying to make sense out of something that is wholly nonsensical. All Sam knows is that there are yet more towns to check out, more events to explain. He swallows hard and turns back to the road. Yesterday, they passed through a small seaside hamlet called Port Beyers. Three days ago, five whales washed up on its shores, their massive bodies mutilated and gutted, splayed almost ritualistically across the beach. In the days prior to that event, a spate of tremors had rocked the surrounding coastal towns, shocking for a region not known for earthquakes. Ragged gashes erupted in the ground, with deep chasms that opened down into the darkness of the earth, like the crevice Castiel and Claire Novak tumbled into in California.

The events are crazy and inexplicable, but they found nothing in those towns but scared people and mass confusion, the same things they've found in almost every town they've stopped at since leaving Bobby's. They're heading now toward Toklan, a small fishing village on the eastern edge of the Everglades. They stayed there once years ago, and Sam's excited to be heading back this way. The weather here is better at least, a nice change up from the constant rain and darkness that followed them down the East coast the last time they were out this way. Sam shivers at the memory of the ghost town where they found Kali; the horrors they saw there have haunted his dreams every night since.

Sam glances up at the sky, which arches around them wide and endless, blue and cloudless. The winding, narrow state highway is surrounded on one side by the never-ending expanse of the sea, and on the other by wildflower-covered hilltops. Looking now at the tranquility of the landscape, Sam can almost forget about the things that hide in the darkness, about the things they're chasing. _And the things chasing them_.

Sam sees the sign for Toklan and smiles, pushing down on the gas. He had to fight Dean for the keys to the Impala that morning, but he's glad he did. His brother needed the sleep, and the steadiness of the drive has calmed Sam, helped him to garner more control over his mind and his memories. It's been two weeks since his last flashback. The road Sam took here allowed him to trace the curve of the Atlantic, and there's something about the steady presence of the ocean that centers him. The memory of crashing through the surface of the water in Texas, breathing in that first breath of life-giving air, still makes his skin sing with strength and excitement. He's _alive_. He's freaking alive.

Sam's shaken from the thought by the sound of his ringtone, muffled low because it's buried inside his backpack, which is tossed haphazardly on the passenger-seat floor. He slows the Impala down and pulls it over to the slim shoulder. He sighs as he turns off the car, silencing the low, comforting grumble of the engine.

They're still thirty miles from town, too many miles from anywhere really. Sam checks to make sure Dean and Cas are still sleeping before he picks up his backpack and climbs out of the Impala. He stretches by the side of the road, his body cramped up from a long-day's drive. He sucks in a deep breath and stands for a long moment with one hand braced on the Impala's warm hood for balance and the other holding his cell as he scrolls through the missed call log.

Bobby had promised to put them in touch with a few local hunters, and Sam's been waiting for the call. Bobby answers on the first ring, and Sam's grip tightens on the cool metal cover of the cell as he presses the phone to his ear. "Bobby?" Sam says.

"'Bout time you called," the old hunter answers gruffly, before Sam hears him turn away from the receiver to yell something at Cheney, who's barking in the background.

"He okay?" Sam asks, settling back against the Impala as he eyes the tree-thick valley spreading out in front of him.

Bobby sighs heavily into the phone on the other end. "That pup ain't been right in the head since Feathers left. Damn fool angel spoiled him rotten."

Sam smirks, remembering how Cas used to put the dog to sleep by rubbing behind his floppy ears and cooing at him in Enochian. "Cas has a way with animals."

"Would explain his way with that brother of yours," Bobby chuckles.

Sam huffs out a soft laugh, nodding. "Tell me about it," he says, smiling a little as he peeks at the sleeping duo in the backseat of the car.

A beat passes before Bobby continues with, "How're you boys doing?"

"Fine," Sam lies, speaking softer into the phone. Bobby snorts because he knows they're far from fine.

"Well, as fine as we can be considering the entire world's decided to go looney tunes," Sam mutters, glancing to the backseat again as he hears his brother stirring awake. Dean rubs at his eyes with his knuckles; he's rumpled with wild bed-hair, but Cas is still curled up against his side, head pressed along Dean's shoulder, sleeping soundly. Sam wants to crack a joke, wants to tease, but he knows Dean would only send him the stink-eye and sulk for the rest of the ride into town. Dean's still a little sensitive about the _Dean-and-Cas_ situation.

"I got news," Bobby says, interrupting Sam's flow of thoughts. Sam turns away from watching his brother, deciding to tease Dean later about his _cuddling_ with Cas.

"Tell me it's good news," Sam says, shoving off the car and digging his boot heel into a grassy patch of earth lining the shoulder.

"Better than yesterday's news," Bobby says gruffly. "Tamara's already in the area investigating the tremors, and she wants to meet up, share resources."

"That would be great," Sam says, digging through his bag for a pen and pad to take down the address and information on Tamara and the other contacts Bobby dug up for them in the region.

When he's done, he slips his cell back into his bag and turns around to find Dean looking at him grumpily. "Why didn't you wake me up?" he asks, voice sleep-rough and slurred.

"Because I was too busy posting pictures of you and Cas cuddling to my Facebook," Sam snickers, tossing Dean the keys to the Impala.

"What's a Facebook?" Dean asks, frowning.

"I live in the 21st century, Dean. You really need to visit it sometime," Sam bemoans, before sliding down into the shotgun seat.

"Whatever," Dean mumbles, shooting Sam a stern look as he adds, "And dude, me and Cas were not cuddling."

Sam laughs because they were so definitely cuddling. He really did take pictures. "You guys are cute. Even Bobby says so."

Dean glares and turns on the radio.

Sam smiles and settles his head back against the seat to rest.

They drive.

  


Memories are not often fluid, or changeable; sometimes they are the only things that stay as they are, that haunt even when all the other ghosts have been salted and burned. The house is still where it was nineteen years ago, nestled between saw-grass prairies and the Grey Lake, and the vast, thick moss-draped cypress forests that circle them in the distance. Dean sits up straighter in the driver's seat as he turns the Impala up the steep driveway, tires squealing against the muddy rocks. Dean knows his baby wasn't made for these kinds of roads, these untamable marshland terrains, and she growls irritably as she takes the final turn, rumbling around them before he cuts the engine off.

Returning here is like stepping back into the past. From the outside, the house looks the same: shabby and unkempt, run-down and weather-worn. But one can tell it was built with strong hands and by someone with a mind for understanding the ways the weather conditioned the land here. Dean smiles, remembering the summer he and John spent working to repair the place – the long, hot hours spent in the sun, pounding away at lumber, cutting and shaping the sheetrock. Dean had been covered in freckles and peeling sunburn that entire summer, but he loved every minute of it. He'd never felt closer to his dad than that time, when what they were doing wasn't just about another hunt. It was about working with their hands to build something lasting, spending time together because they could. Sam used to sit in the shade under the orange tree across the way, reading from his book of the week – Dean thinks it was the _Lord of the Rings_ books that summer, and he remembers how excited Sam had been to finish the entire series. During breaks he and Sam use to munch on the oranges and discuss which of Tolkien's characters were their favorites. Dean was always fond of Aragorn, and Sam would sing the praises of Gandalf the Grey. It felt like they were in one of Tolkien's worlds out here, surrounded as they were by rivers of long grass and marshland.

The house is like something from the deeper south, with a wide, wrap-around porch. It's a summer house first loaned to John by a family they'd saved from a cursed object back in the spring of '94. The Winchesters were allowed to use the house for as long as they needed it, and John had gladly accepted the offer, knowing the boys needed some rest. The place needed repairs back then, but it was sturdy, having been built by the family out of hearty hardwood gathered from the surrounding forest. There's a dilapidated barn out back where they used to keep their hunting equipment, and a coop where they used to keep a few chickens. He and Sam would sometimes chase the wild turkeys and marsh rabbits that came through the yard as well. Between that and fishing, they were able to supplement much of the food John would bring home from the county market each week.

Dean was fifteen that summer, and it was the first time he remembers staying anywhere long enough for it to feel like maybe, just maybe, this could be home. Sam took to the lifestyle quickly as well. He'd get up with the rising sun and gather fresh eggs from the hens, smiling wide when he stomped his small, dew-covered boots into the kitchen every morning to show them to Dean. "Awesome, Sammy," Dean would say, before ruffling his hair and turning out a breakfast that sent all their mouths watering, making the eggs the way Sam loved – sunny-side up – and French toast for his dad, while frying up patties of smoky sausage for himself.

"Dean?"

Dean blinks, stomach growling. He shakes his head free of the old memories and turns to look at Sam, who's grinning at him in a knowing way. "Huh?" Dean says, trying to remember if Sam had been speaking to him.

"I was just remembering that year we spent here," Sam says, running his hand over the dashboard. "Seems not so long ago. But I had to be what? Ten? Eleven?"

"Eleven," Dean nods, smiling again. "Short and chubby. Old Lady Millie used to love pinching those rosy cheeks of yours."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam laughs, shaking his head. "That's cool that the family remembered us after all these years and was willing to let us stay here again."

"Free a family from an ancient curse, and they are forever in your debt," Dean quips, turning to glance at the sleeping angel in the backseat.

"Should we head in?" Sam asks.

"I kinda don't want to wake Cas. He's been having a rough few nights," Dean says, biting his lip as he watches the rise and fall of Castiel's chest.

"The dreams again?" Sam asks, sounding concerned.

Dean turns to Sam, sucks in a deep breath and nods. The car goes still and quiet. "Always."

  


The sun is starting to set by the time Dean finishes unpacking. Sam's sitting at the kitchen table poring over a series of documents Tamara forwarded them, and Castiel is snoring softly from the narrow bed in the room across the way, the thick paperback book he was reading resting on his chest. The house is still warm and musty from being shut up for so long. An old circulating fan rattles and whirs in the living room, catching the pages of their loose documents so that Sam's placed coffee mugs on top of everything. Dean smiles and shakes his head, grabs a beer from the fridge, and heads out to the porch, the hinges of the old screen door groaning behind him as it opens and slams shut.

He leans against the porch railing as he stares out across the overgrown clearing to the mass of oaks and beeches beyond it. The sunset dresses the trees in gold-orange fire, and Dean can just barely see the lightning bugs flashing throughout the tall grass. The sound of crickets, cicadas, and frogs is louder than the NPR station Sam has the radio tuned into inside the house.

If there's time between this hunt and the next, Dean wants to work on the old place. In some spots on the porch, the wood's warped and cracked, and much of the old white paint is peeling, faded to a dull gray. Dean figures the last time the house was painted was during the summer they lived here, almost twenty years ago now. There's a rocking chair in a corner of the porch where Dean remembers falling asleep in the evenings sometimes. The old wooden planks creak and whine with each boot step as Dean moves to settle on the rocker. The evening's hot, and his sweat-damp t-shirt clings to his chest uncomfortably.

He sips on his beer and tunes out the racket of nature, feeling desperate for just a hint of an evening breeze. There's something out in these woods; something disappearing people. He thinks of all the people living like this on the edges of these small swamp towns, sitting ducks for any monster, and he knows they need to find out what's happening here before anyone else goes missing.

Dean drains the rest of his beer, watching the way the dying sun falls across the Impala, lights her up like the glorious animal she is. He remembers being fifteen and sitting here, doing this exact same thing. The picture hasn't changed much. The yard has grown over, tangled in reedy trees, vines, and weeds. The house has fallen into neglect. But the sounds are the same, the sky is the same, and there's something comforting in that.

Alone like this, Dean thinks about things. His life before the fire. His life after. Losing Sam, then John, then Sam again. Alastair and the Pit, and everything he became. Afterwards, not being enough to save Sam from a fate worse than anything. And now there's this thing with Cas, and how it makes Dean shake sometimes because he's so damn worried he's going to lose it too, like he's lost everything else. Dean closes his eyes. The humid air is so heavy here, and it feels like a leaden force weighing him down.

He pushes down the doubts and listens to the noises around him: the frogs croak and peep, and a howl hoots from the cover of a tree. There are so many sounds out in the swamp, and if he listens hard enough, Dean can hear something wailing in the distance. Monster or animal, he doesn't know.

  


Gordo's, the tiny little fish shack in the main stretch of downtown Toklan, is nestled near Grey Lake, between the open-air fishmarket and an array of antique shops. A hand-painted sign declaring _World's Greatest Seafood_ hangs crookedly from the window. According to the locals, Gordo's has the best crab cakes this side of the Everglades, and by his third helping Sam doesn't have any reason to disagree.

It's lunchtime, and the place is bustling with a mix of locals and tourists. They decided on an outside table, wanting to drink in as much daylight as possible. The sun is still high in the sky, drenching the outdoor deck in light and heat. The wicker furniture is weather-beaten and old, but the fish and chips they ordered are greasy and delicious, and the ice tea is cold and sweet.

Dean is smiling and licking his fingers clean as he watches Cas eat, and Sam's trying his best not to call Dean out on just how completely _owned_ he is. Sam's feeling good right now, and watching his brother smile is enough to celebrate. The fresh air is good for them too, especially after the weeks of crazy weather they've been experiencing in hot spots around the country. Even Cas seems a little more at ease in the sun, shoulders less stiff, legs sprawled and tangled with Dean's under the table, his smile lazy and content as he watches Dean watch him.

Sam can't help grinning at how freaking _obvious_ they are. Most days he doesn't know what to do with them. "Guys," Sam says, glancing at the shimmer-shine of the lakefront splayed out before them. "I think we should go swimming later."

"Dude," Dean says, and Sam turns to see his brother pointing a wobbly, ketchup-laden fry at him. "Aren't you sick of the water by now? Plus, something took a bite out of Shamu and his brothers just last week."

"That was three towns away, by the ocean," Sam says, shrugging. "I just think we should enjoy the good weather and downtime while we can."

"You mean before whatever's going on gets worse," Dean mutters, chewing on another fry.

"I don't know man," Sam says after a time, taking a slow pull of his ice tea. He bites at his bottom lip, turning to watch Dean make frowny faces at Castiel's conch chowder. "I don't know what we should be doing."

Cas glances up at Sam, eyes solemn. "I fear we've yet to see the full extent of this."

"Understatement of the year," Dean retorts, sitting back in his chair and turning to glance at the restaurant's crowded interior. He's been throwing glances at the front door every few minutes, keeping an eye out for their contacts.

In the uneasy silence that follows, the waitress refills Sam's iced tea and Castiel's water. Sam finds himself watching the lakefront, the way the sun reflects off the still surface which glitters silver.

It's only another few minutes before Dean kicks his feet under the table.

"What?" Sam yelps, looking up at Dean.

"At your three o'clock," Dean says, nodding towards the restaurant's front door.

Sam looks up. A familiar figure captures his attention from across the restaurant, and he smiles. "Right on time," he says.

Dean nods, eyes locked on the doorway. "Who's the chick with her?"

Sam shakes his head, watching as two women part the crowd, easing between the bustling tables. "Bobby did mention Tamara wasn't traveling alone," he says, raising his hand to point out their location to the new arrivals.

A moment later Tamara is standing in front of them, a soft, crooked smile carving deep dimples into her cheek. "Sam and Dean Winchester," she declares, her British accent shaping her words. "Didn't think I'd ever be seeing you again." Her smile widens, and Sam notices that Tamara looks much the same as the last time they saw her, except now her hair is twisted in long dark braids, and she has a couple more scars to indicate that the years have been long and hard. There's also a sadness to her eyes that probably speaks to the fact that Isaac is no longer at her side.

"It's good to see you in one piece, Tamara," Dean is saying fondly, motioning for Tamara and her friend to take the two empty seats at the table. "This is Cas, by the way," he adds, pointing to the angel, who's watching the proceedings curiously.

"Hello," Castiel says, offering his hand.

"It's good to meet you Cas," Tamara smiles, shaking his hand before she takes her seat. "Since we're making introductions, I want you all to meet my best friend Mira Kovic. We've been working these cases together since I got into the States." She nods towards the tall, dark-haired woman taking the seat next to her.

"Hi Mira," Sam says, and he extends his hand, which the woman shakes without pause.

"I've heard a lot about you," she says, her voice calm like the surface of the waveless Grey Lake. There's a slight accent there, one that Sam's trying hard to place. There's also a sharp guardedness to her pale blue eyes as her gaze flicks over Sam, measuring him.

"I hope all of it was good," Sam says, curious as to what she's actually heard. He knows the Winchesters have a mixed reputation in the hunter network.

"Mostly," Mira says, lips curving into a sly smile. "It's good to meet you, Sam. And you too, Dean and Castiel." She reaches across to shake his brother's and the angel's hands before pulling off her black leather jacket and sitting back in her seat. Free of her jacket, Sam sees flashes of the protective tattoos that cover her upper arms like shirt sleeves: the intertwined shapes of devil's traps, runes, and old languages. She's wearing a tank top, but her long, dark hair falls down her back, covering the rest of the tattoos. A few strands of her hair fall across her ears, which are studded with a long row of silver earrings. She also has a silver labret piercing that Sam finds his eyes drawn back to again and again.

Mira's eyes meet his across the table, and Sam turns away, embarrassed to be caught looking.

Once everyone's seated and made their orders to the waitress, they get down to business fairly quickly. Tamara explains the series of events that brought her back to the United States, and how she and Mira met up while on the same hunt in Seattle.

"Wait, you're the hunter Bobby sent to check that out?" Sam asks, interrupting Mira's description of the disappearances in the Hoh rainforest in the Olympic National Park in Washington.

"Yeah, Bobby told me he'd been tracking similar cases around the country," she nods, playing with the straw in her ice tea, her eyes bright and curious as they meet Sam's across the table. "I went because he said he needed my help. Why do you ask?"

Sam takes a swallow of his drink and sits back as he looks at Mira. Her eyes are old and haunted, fanned by the dark brush of her eyelashes. "He spoke very highly of the hunter he sent to Seattle. It's just good to put a name and face to the description."

Mira smiles then, soft and slow, all the while shaking her head. "That old man is something else. He's a good man, though. He has been like a mentor to me. A crazy, paranoid bastard of a mentor, but a good one nonetheless."

Sam nods, huffing out a laugh. "I know what you mean." He turns to see Dean, Castiel, and Tamara quietly poring over a map together, and when he turns back to look at Mira, he notices that she's still watching him, eyes curious.

Sam clears his throat, plays with the napkin by his now-empty plate. He raises his gaze to Mira's again. "Your accent…Eastern European?

"Good ear," Mira says, lips quirking. "I spent most of my life in the U.S. so I've lost it a bit."

"Where were you born?" Sam asks.

Mira looks at him as if she's trying to figure him out before answering. "I migrated here with my family from Bosnia when I was just a child."

Sam nods, understanding dawning. "After the war?"

Her eyes flit away, her expression troubled as she murmurs, "Yes."

"I'm sorry to bring up the war," Sam says, shifting his body awkwardly.

"We're hunters, Sam," Mira says, and she smiles sadly when she looks at him. "Our whole life is war."

Sam doesn't know what to say that, and he doesn't have a chance to formulate an adequate response anyway, because the waitress arrives delivering their desserts, apple pies a la mode all around.

They eat in relative silence for a while, making small talk about the region and the strange weather patterns they've been tracking these past few weeks.

"What next?" Sam asks, once they've paid their checks and cleared the table of the articles and maps Tamara had brought with her. She has a bag full of research on the floor, and Sam's eager to dig into it.

Dean shrugs, chugging down the remainder of his beer before setting it back down on the table, the sweat off the empty bottle forming a little ring along the wood.

"We figure out whatever is happening here," Tamara says, rubbing a hand over her own face, pinching at her brow. She seems stressed out by the very idea, and Sam can relate.

"And hope for a new lead," Mira huffs out, lifting her eyes from her own empty beer bottle to settle on Sam. "We're hoping we can work closely together with you on this."

Mira's gaze is calculating, and Sam has to turn his head away and clear his throat. Something weird is lodged in his windpipe; maybe a piece of that mackerel from earlier.

Dean kicks him under the table, and Sam lets out a little grunt before turning to stare daggers at his brother. Dean throws a shit-eating grin Sam's way, waggling his brows suggestively.

"Sharing resources seems the best idea," Castiel says, picking up the conversation now that Sam and Dean have reverted to kicking each other under the table. Sam gives Dean one last knock with his boot before turning back to Tamara and Mira, who are both looking at them all expectantly.

"We should definitely work together," Sam agrees, cheeks heating up when he catches Mira's eye again.

"That's settled then," Tamara says, rubbing her hands together. "We can only stay on a week, though. There's this hunter gathering in Colorado at the end of the month. We're discussing what's happening around the globe. After the last few years…well, we've learned that when the world starts going to shit, we need to organize. Be ready."

Sam swallows, understanding. "You're thinking it's another Apocalypse?"

Tamara raises a brow. "Don't you?"

Sam nods and says quietly, "All the signs point to it."

"Look," Tamara sighs, leaning back in her chair and running a finger along the edge of the table. She's quiet for a moment before continuing. "No one on the hunter underground really knows the full story of what went down with you boys and the whole end-of-the-world shebang. I only know pieces of it, snatches I got from Bobby and my own investigating. But I know there's a big unknown story to what happened and to what didn't happen. Especially considering both Winchester boys are supposed to be long dead. I respect your right to not tell me about your role in any of it. But right now, if we're working together, joining forces, we need to lay all our cards on the table. So…if you know what's happening now, at this very moment, with the crazy shit going on in the world, I'd appreciate if you could share."

Sam shakes his head, feels the weight of the last few years sit heavy on his chest. "Tamara, if we knew, we'd tell you. But we're just as lost as the rest of you."

Tamara sits back, rubbing at her neck. She seems to accept that as truth. "Okay. Then let's go find our Everglades boogie man."

  


It's late afternoon by the time Sam wakes up the following day. They'd spent most of the previous night checking out the area, traveling to all the hot spots where people disappeared and the epicenters of the quakes and other weird phenomenon in the region.

Sam still feels sore from all the hiking. Last night, the mosquitoes had decided they enjoyed feasting on Sam the most, so much so that in between slapping and scratching he wondered dementedly if they just enjoyed demon blood more than the other kind. He yawns and stretches as he steps out of bed, glancing through his window at the sun high in the sky, before he heads into the bathroom. His business done, he tugs on a clean-looking pair of jeans and t-shirt before stepping from the bedroom to the living room.

He finds Cas sitting in the middle of the couch, surrounded by old books and newspaper clippings. He's scowling as he stares down at a huge tome opened across his lap, sipping carefully at his coffee and munching on a piece of burnt-looking bagel as he reads.

"Anything interesting?" Sam asks.

"Good afternoon, Sam," Castiel says, looking up from his book. "This book has the history of ancient Sumer completely wrong."

Sam yawns, stretches out his arms wide and scratches at a bug bite. "Not surprised by that, dude. Where's Dean?"

Castiel scribbles something down on a notepad, frowning. "Getting more books out of the car."

Sam plops down on the empty sofa, still feeling a little tired even though he slept in. "Why didn't you guys wake me?"

"Because you needed to sleep," Castiel says matter-of-factly. "There's a plate of lunch for you on the stove if you're hungry."

Sam smiles and wanders into the kitchen, rummaging around in the cabinets for a bowl of cereal before heating up and digging into the plate of spaghetti that Dean had set aside for him. He snatches an apple and a glass of milk for desert, all of which he inhales in the span of several minutes. Castiel is still focused on his research when Sam walks back into the main room, so Sam decides to look around the old house.

Not much has changed in the way of furnishings. The style is still old and rustic, hand-carved chairs and tables, most of it made by Dean and John that year they all lived here. He remembers that summer well, chasing Dean through the woods when not practicing shooting Coke cans with a shotgun or getting use to the sound of Latin curling around his young tongue. There had been angry spirits and poltergeists aplenty to hunt that summer, but mostly they stayed close to home, working on the house and on their training.

Sam wanders from room to room, recollecting the scenes of a lost childhood. Dean and Cas are sharing the master bedroom John once slept in, while Sam took the room he used to share with Dean. Last night he found the place where Dean carved their names into the molding of the wall behind the bed, a crooked _Sam and Dean Rule_ scrawled in large block letters.

The pine floors feel rough and worn under his feet, having lost much of their shine, but they're cool despite the heat of the afternoon. There's a radio playing by the time he makes it back to the living room, The Rolling Stones' _Wild Horses_ filling the house, the bass rumbling low through Sam's belly. He stops and pauses by the kitchen door, smiling at the sight he's greeted with. Cas is refilling his coffee by the sink as Dean slides up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his face to Castiel's neck. They stand like that for a long moment, and Sam really doesn't have the heart to interrupt them. Rarely has Dean looked that peaceful…if ever.

Sam remembers how he used to do the same thing with Jess. Curl up behind her in the mornings, rest his head against her shoulder as she stirred something on the stove.

_wild horses couldn't drag me away_

Sam leaves them to this moment, simply enjoying the quiet feeling that comes with just having them both here and _alive_ , and the sense of safety that comes from his big brother and his friend. He stares at the living room, at the sunlight flooding in through the wide curtains. There's dust on the few pieces of furniture they have, but their books and papers have been piled neatly in the corner by Cas. Outside, beyond the frame of the window, he sees nothing but blue sky and fresh, crisp air.

He thinks about Mira, her dark hair and sad smile, and the words she said to him yesterday. _Our whole life is war_.

He thinks about Dean's face when he embraced Cas, the way he held on to him like he was holding on to something he could lose at any moment. At moments like this, Sam remembers what they're fighting for.

  


The sun is setting by the time Sam heads out to the university library two towns over. The coming night is warm enough that Sam rolls up his sleeves, leaves the windows down so the breeze can rush in. The highway is empty, a straight black line smooth to the horizon. The sun is melting into the Cypress forest lining the road, and there's something rioting hotly inside Sam's chest. Expectation. Nerves. A little of everything. It's like the feeling he used to get just before solving a really hard equation.

Sam heads for Landover, the small college town nestled along the Sonee River. It's a seasonal town catering to vacationers and college students looking to study amongst the natural beauty of the region. Mangroves line the riverfront, hiding the moored boats and fishing trawlers. Downtown is clean and idyllic, filled with coffee shops, art galleries, seafood restaurants, and a visitors' center. Banners run up and down the main street advertising the local spring seafood festival. The library itself is larger than he expected, and its neoclassical design is made more impressive by the fact that it's surrounded by towering royal palms.

Sam finds Mira in the back of the library, sitting at a long oak table hidden in one of the far-off Classics sections that students rarely traverse. She's surrounded on all sides by books and papers, but she has her laptop open in front of her, and the screen's dim glow illuminates the sharp features of her face.

Mira's long hair is pulled up behind her head with a clip, and it's a style Sam used to see Jess wearing a lot when they studied together during those late nights at the library. The familiarity of the image stills him for a moment. He doesn't know why he's been thinking of Jess so much lately.

Mira doesn't look up as he approaches, too busy typing furiously on her keypad. Sam sits at the table, in one of the hard plastic chairs that seem to groan under the weight of him. "Hey," he says when she still doesn't look up after another long moment. He squirms to get comfortable in his seat, bending down to take his own laptop from his messenger bag.

"Hey there, Sam," she says after a beat, her voice distant, and her long fingers still clacking away on her keyboard as she tips her head up to look at him. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"I got caught up helping Dean clean out the old house we're staying at," he says, and his throat feels suddenly too dry. They'd agreed to meet up to do some research today, and Dean had teased him relentlessly about "study dates with hot lady hunters."

Mira grunts, but continues to type without further comment. Sam clears his throat, asks, "Where's Tamara?"

"She actually headed out to Colorado early," Mira says. "Don't worry. She left copies of her notes and all her research. I got it at the motel. I'm going to meet her in Boulder when we're done with this investigation."

"Why didn't you head out early too?" Sam says, arching a brow.

Mira meets his eyes, lips curling slightly as she says, "I have some unfinished business."

In the silence that falls between them, Sam tries to pay attention to the news story he pulled up on his computer screen, but he's too busy noticing the way loose locks of Mira's hair look russet-colored in the dim light of the library, the way they fall halfway down her back, the curled ends brushing against the white cotton of her shirt. Her shirt has sleeves today, but he can still picture the tattoos that cover both her arms, the designs complicated, the rich black ink standing out against the tan of her skin.

_Christ_. It's been a while since Sam's let himself look this hard.

Mira's head shifts up suddenly, and her gaze meets Sam's own. She smirks like she knows what Sam's been thinking, her sea-foam eyes flickering with mirth. She stops typing and squints to look Sam over. "Tell me something, Sam," she says. "Am I really that fascinating to you?"

Sam's face goes hot, the guilty burn spreading all the way down his body. "No, I. Um. Yes," he stutters out, and _goddammit_ he hasn't been this tongue-tied since junior high. He clears his throat and starts over. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

"Yes, you did," she says easily, her lips curving into a knowing smile, before she closes her laptop with a final click and puts it away.

Sam's mouth gapes open for a moment, but he has enough sense to close it and nod. "Okay, yeah, I did."

Mira laughs and shakes her head before pulling a book in front of her. In that moment her laugh reminds Sam of the first girl he ever had sex with – Caitlin Peters, from Ann Arbor, Michigan. An artist with purple hair and cupid's bow lips, a sly grin, and an intense love of The Smiths. At the time Sam was seventeen and full of righteous anger, having spent most of the year locked away in his own head, convinced both John and Dean would never understand him. Caitlin had been a kindred spirit, angry and passionate, and Sam remembers the first time she let his hand slip under her white sundress, how his fingers got lost in the wetness between her legs.

"Sam?"

Sam feels his cheeks heating up again as he shakes away the memory. He clears his throat and catches Mira's gaze.

She's still laughing at him when she asks, "So, what do you know of sea lore?"

"Like ghost ships and mermen?" Sam says, scratching behind his neck as his cheeks continue to flame.

Mira nods, motioning for him to take the seat right beside her so that he can share the books she has been looking through. Sam moves quickly, and Mira's breath is warm on his face when he leans in for a closer look.

"I'm searching for any history on the Everglades surrounding that kind of lore," she explains. Sam moves closer, their elbows and arms brushing as he pulls another book out and begins to page through it. Mira smells of honeysuckle and gunpowder, and Sam really needs to get his mind back on the case.

  


A few minutes pass, with nothing but the sound of turning pages to break the quiet. Sam can feel Mira's eyes on him, and when he looks at her there's a perceptiveness to her gaze that he wasn't expecting.

"Bobby says you had a rough couple of years," she says lowly.

Sam clears his throat, and she must see something in his face, because she turns away, apologizing. "Didn't mean to bring it up."

"No, it's okay," he says, but his voice stutters, and he blinks, looking away from her, eyes gone back to tracking across the text in his book. "I'm dealing."

"I'm glad," she says. "That you're dealing."

Sam shrugs with one shoulder and licks his lips. "Did Bobby tell you about that selkie he was tracking out by Point Reyes?" he asks, changing the subject awkwardly.

"Yep," Mira smiles, wide and bright. "I killed it last year."

  


They get kicked out of the library a little after midnight, and they end up loading books into Mira's beaten-up pickup by moonlight.

"I passed a 24-hour diner on the way into town," Sam says when the last book is loaded, and he's watching Mira climb into the cab of her truck. The door shuts before she winds her arm out of the window, hitting her palm against the side of the track with a loud thump.

She looks at him for a long, considering moment, her eyes heavy and thoughtful. "A diner?"

"Yeah," Sam says, watching her carefully, trying to get a read on her. "Let me buy you a milkshake."

She stares at him for another long moment, before she turns her head to face the endless stretch of dark road ahead of them. "I've heard many things about you, Sam Winchester," she says quietly.

Sam sucks in a deep breath, says, "Oh."

" _Sam Winchester is the Anti-Christ_ ," she says as if repeating a message she'd heard repeated countless times before.

Sam's whole chest aches with the sharp sort of pain he thought only Lucifer could bring. _Fucking Gordon_ , he thinks. But in the silence that follows, Sam can only laugh hollowly and shake his head. "No, that's this kid named Jesse. You got the wrong demon-spawn."

Sam expects to hear her start up the truck, but instead he hears the door groaning open as she steps down, her boots hitting the hard gravel of the parking lot. She drops her duffle to the ground beside her. She then pulls on a worn coat that probably belonged to a brother or father, two sizes too big and falling across her slender hips.

"I like strawberry milkshakes," she says before picking up her bag, circling around him, and heading toward the Impala. Sam watches her climb into the passenger-seat, long legs folding up against the dash. She looks back at him expectantly, brows arched. "Coming or what?" she calls.

Sam hurries to the car, sliding down into the driver's seat before throwing a curious look her way. She's busy looking out the window, so Sam starts up the car and peels out of the parking lot and onto the long highway back toward Toklan without question.

A few minutes pass before he asks. "Why'd you decide to come?" The wheel is slipping under his wet palms, and there's something stuck in his throat again.

Mira turns from where she's contemplating the passing trees. She shrugs her shoulders. "Maybe I wanted to hear your story." The seat squeaks as she shifts her body, bending her legs at awkward angles.

Sam nods, eyes back on the road. "It'll take a while to tell," he admits quietly.

"The best always do," she says, her fingers tapping on the door handle. She turns her head back toward the window, the passing shadows reflecting in her eyes.

"Ask me again some other time," Sam says softly. "About my story."

"I'll hold you to that," Mira says, voice low with promise.

Sam smiles at that. He has a feeling she will. In front of him, the night is pitch black, and the headlights spill across an empty highway, a road that seems to go on forever.

  


"Hey. Check this out."

Sam glances up as his brother inscribes a careless circle around an article in the newspaper he's poring over, before sliding it across the table towards him.

Dean's voice is low and confidential as he continues. "Just – don't know what to make of it," he says as he taps the headline. "Buried in the international section. Could be a coincidence, I guess." He frowns, nods almost imperceptibly in Castiel's direction as he does. "Keep it down, okay? I don't want to worry him."

Sam glances over at the angel, who's sitting cross-legged on the couch, engrossed in one of the antiquated leather-bound books they took from Bobby's. _This one is on Greek legends_ , he'd murmured at Sam placidly when asked, before frowning thoughtfully and adding, _Homer always tended toward exaggeration_. Sam huffs, turns his attention back to the newspaper, scans the print, finds he's reading about an army platoon vanished off-the-beaten track in central Asia. He looks up, tenting his brows in question at the expectant look on his brother's face. "Disappearances," he offers. "Okay, well. We knew that."

Dean raises his own eyebrow meaningfully. "Look at the other one too, bottom left."

Sam does, skims through more of the same, different country, people going missing, local authorities baffled. They have a growing file of similar newspaper cuttings, thickened by Tamara and Mira's additional intel, and he shrugs helplessly. "I'm not seeing anything new, Dean. Same thing we've been finding for months."

After a quick, annoyed glance at the couch, Dean leans in towards him, keeping his reply as quiet as he can. "Look at _where_ ," he hisses. "The locations. Barsakelmes Nature Reserve is on the Aral Sea. So, when a whole platoon of the Uzbek army goes missing while they're on maneuvers in a nature reserve on the banks of the Aral Sea, you don't think it might be significant?"

Sam does the math every which way, and he's still none the wiser. He knows Dean must see it in his face when he gives an exasperated eyeroll.

"Look at the other ones, Sam," he persists. "Kiunga, Kaambooni, Kismayo. People going missing…it adds up to one hundred sixteen, according to those reports."

Sam feels like he's still five or ten steps behind, and he turns up puzzled hands. "I see that, and it fits the pattern, but—"

"They're places where Cas worked miracles, aren't they?" Dean cuts him off, and he makes his eyes wide, nods in emphasis. "Remember?" he continues. "When you were out of it, right after he swallowed the souls. He refilled the Aral Sea, ended the drought in the horn of Africa. And there were floods afterwards. _Water_. Maybe water full of whatever spawned those fish-guy mutants."

Dean drifts his eyes over to where their friend is sitting, and Sam tracks his gaze, sees that Castiel still seems oblivious. He studies Castiel's expression, and it's peaceful as he reads. When he switches back to Dean, his brother seems to be miles away too. It seems as if Dean is absorbing Castiel, his eyes gone soft and gentle, so that Sam almost doesn't want to intrude on whatever memory he might be seeing in his head.

"Cas said something…" Dean murmurs eventually, before he finally pulls his attention back to Sam. "When we were down in Galveston. He said he was worried something he did when he was souled up might be causing the disappearances." He bites his lip. "We need to get online, find out if any of these regions have local news websites, find out if anyone's reporting those fish-guys anywhere Castiel's miracles happened…other way round too, maybe he pulled some shit where the disappearances we've been tracking Stateside took place."

Sam thinks on it, looks over at the couch where Castiel is still and tranquil, his only movement the occasional turn of a page. And he doesn't like himself for asking, but he has to. "Do you think he might know anything? That he's not telling us something?"

It's loaded, and Sam knows Dean is well aware of that – it's clear from the way his brother's jaw twitches.

"There is no way, Sam," he answers, soft but firm. "No way. You know his memory is spotty, the souls kept him on lockdown. And he can't even remember his dreams clearly, so if there is something buried, he sure can't reach it."

Sam considers it. "Maybe." But he has heard the angel's muffled cries in the dark, has roused Castiel from enough nightmares himself to have listened to his jumbled, confused rambling in the moments before shaking him awake, words Sam doesn't understand and hasn't been able to make out clearly enough to translate. "But, uh…he dreams in Enochian sometimes. And in other languages we don't understand," he observes carefully.

His brother shifts uncomfortably as the subtext sinks in. "Sometimes," he concedes reluctantly. "But I asked him once before about it…I even said some of it back to him, what I could remember of it. He said it was Balthazar's name. He was dreaming about Balthazar and all that crap that went down with them."

Sam runs his hands through his hair and inhales deeply. "Maybe he _is_ starting to remember and just hasn't mentioned it? Remember what Bobby said about that hunt back in Rhode Island? Those mutant fish-guys targeted Cas and said something that spooked him. Have you tried talking to him about it?"

"He says he doesn't remember what they said," Dean says, frowning before he continues, a defensive note creeping into his voice "Said he thought it might be a spell, Bobby thought so too."

Sam sighs and tries his best to keep his tone neutral. "It wouldn't be the first time he's lied to you, Dean," he says quietly. The second he finishes speaking the pressure suddenly shoots up in the room, so much so that Sam can feel the air pressing down on him and wonders abstractedly if he might get an attack of the bends if he were to get up and go outside.

Dean's reply is a quiet, insistent growl squeezed out through tight lips. "He isn't lying to me this time, Sam."

Sam meets his brother's stare for a long moment of silence, sees that Dean's eyes look hurt and anxious, and there's a line between his brows. He looks vulnerable suddenly, and Sam sighs again, moves it along. "I guess we should do that research then. Should we talk to Tamara and Mira about this? We promised to be up front with them," he adds.

Dean frowns, shaking his head. "Let's keep this between us for now. Until we know what's what."

"Alright, then," Sam nods, running a hand through his hair.

Dean visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping before he lifts his pen to his mouth and chews on the tip speculatively. "One of those nuclear power plants was in New Mexico," he recalls. "And Bobby said Jody has a cousin or something at the Department of Energy who gave her some intel right after Cas vaporized it. We should see if she'll fish for more."

Sam makes a face at him. "New Mexico's landlocked though. And it seems like most of these mass disappearances have been coastal or on large bodies of water, so—"

Dean raises a finger. "Nuclear reactors need water to cool them, the plant will be on a river…Rio Grande, probably. We should check for unexplained disappearances all along the watershed."

His look is already drifting back to the couch, his expression unguarded. "He isn't lying to me, Sam," he reiterates under his breath, so soft that Sam isn't sure he even meant to say it out loud or that he knows he did. "Not any more."

  


In the evening Dean finds Castiel out on the porch. He's sitting in the old wooden rocking chair, facing the dusk-heavy sky. The sun has started its slow descent, and a violet-red haze falls across the yard, outlining Castiel's features, and throwing the world into softer, richer colors. Castiel is writing in the journal Dean gave him at Christmas, something that Dean catches him doing more and more often of late.

Dean hovers in the doorway watching the angel for a long moment, not wanting to disturb him. It's warm out, a spring that feels more like summer. After a while, he settles against the doorframe, his fingers picking the peeling paint at the hinges. His gaze is thrown toward the yard. It's still a wide sea of green, dotted by lightning bugs, and Dean remembers the hours he spent adventuring through it as a kid. The woods have grown wilder than they used to be, and they nearly obscure the distant fields.

Dean wishes he could give Cas a piece of that memory, of that long-ago innocence. He wishes they could run around like the kids neither of them ever had a chance to be. Maybe they would have climbed the tallest tree, wrestled in the overlong grass together, gotten covered in dirt and soil, rolled around until they could feel the deep roots of the trees underneath their hands, or laid on their back in the grass looking up at the sky, watching the changing colors of the sunset. He thinks Cas would have been one of those weird kids – the kind who pretended they were birds, spreading their wings across the saw-grass prairies, mimicking the motions of the egrets and herons flying low overhead. _Flying_.

Dean turns back to watching Castiel write in his journal, mapping the precise movements of his hands. Even in writing, Castiel carries the same kind of quiet elegance that the angel carries in most of his motions. It's like watching him spar almost, how his wrist flicks in just the right way, how the tip of one long finger curls up to follow the line of text across the page. Every stroke of pen on paper, every line and curve created, every word written, it's like watching Castiel swing a sword: lunge, shift, arch. A dance of motion and power.

  


Dean thinks of the few times Castiel has written across the span of his body, spelling out blessings and protections into Dean's warm skin. He is always so slow and methodical in his work, his long fingers like paint brushes, and Dean's skin his canvas. It always happens in the middle of the night, when they are curled together, alone. Dean thinks of the way Cas whispers words against his skin in those moments, how he confesses the kind of stuff that leaves Dean sobbing and gasping into his pillow. It's a ritual they've created for themselves, carved into the practice of being together, when the nights are bad and the darkness too close to bear alone.

Dean never asks Castiel what he writes in his journal though, and he would never read anything without the angel's permission. Everyone needs to have something that's just for them. He's seen pages of the journal now and then, when he gets into bed and Cas is still writing, but much of it is foreign to him. There are languages that span the globe in the course of a single paragraph. Mostly angelic script, elegantly-shaped Enochian runes inked into paper with a black Bic ballpoint pen. Dean can recognize the Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, but even between the words and the sigils he sees, the spaces on the page seem thick with meaning. One line splitting into two, curving into a circle that turns into a spiral and then into nothing. Words and symbols that look more like paths to something else. Algebraic equations that have meaning only to Castiel, and how he sees and understands the world.

Dean hopes that one day Cas will trust him enough to read something to him. Truth is, there are still pieces of Castiel that Dean is trying to figure out, so many layers he's trying to peel back and dissect. But how can anyone truly know something so unknowable? How can he truly fathom a billion-year-old warrior of Heaven? Castiel's words said to him in anger and sadness last year still linger with bitter truth: _You can't, Dean. You're just a man. I'm an angel_.

The light is dimming, and Castiel is lit by the lingering western glow. Dean clears his throat and says, "You alright there, Cas?" while still hovering in the doorway.

Castiel looks up from his journal, offers a tiny half smile that could mean anything or everything. _I'm great. I'm miserable_. He motions with his eyes for Dean to come closer, and Dean does, his bare feet shuffling against the warm wood of the porch as he makes his way to Castiel.

Dean sits against the porch railing in front of Castiel, his feet pressing alongside Castiel's shoes where their legs tangle together in front of them. He looks at Castiel's hands, watches how he presses his palm into the thick leather cover of his journal, how he thumbs through the filled pages, his words creating an elegant print. Dean wonders if any of the things he writes about are the same thoughts he shares with Dean over breakfast, the same fears he confesses in the dim light of their bedroom.

Ever since the souls, they've been able to feel each other in ways they weren't tuned into before. Cas is in his head more than ever, and Dean feels the tingle along their bond when they're close, like an itch just under his skin, something heavy settled against his mind. He knows something's up with Cas, knows that he's upset about something. Dean can _feel_ it. But he just doesn't know how to get him to talk about it. Dean thinks about what Sam told him earlier, about Cas keeping secrets again. He clenches his fist tight, nails digging into his palm.

When Dean speaks, his voice cracks with the tension he can't hide. "We need to talk, Cas."

Castiel stares up at him for a long moment, eyes dark and knowing, says, "I know."

Dean blinks, cuts his eyes to the side and turns to watch the darkening sky. "So. Yeah."

They're not so good with this part. They can fight like motherfuckers, handle guns and knives and pissed-off demons with expertise. But having the hard conversations? It doesn't come natural to either of them. When Dean speaks again he's still staring at the sky, avoiding Castiel's eyes. "You're telling me everything, right? About what you know?"

When Castiel doesn't answer, Dean turns to look at him. The angel is looking down at the journal in his lap. His knuckles are chapped and dry, weathered-red from working on the roof with Dean earlier. There are deep shadows beneath his eyes, a reminder of sleepless nights past and those to come.

"Cas," Dean says, and there's a tightness in his stomach. "What the hell, man?"

Cas looks troubled now, and there's a quiet and soft intensity reflected in his eyes as they lock on Dean's own. "I don't deserve your trust. But I ask for it, Dean. Trust me when I tell you that I don't know what's happening. Please."

Dean swallows, running a hand over his face. He exhales heavily, relief pumping through his veins. "Okay, Cas. I believe you. It's just…" He shrugs uncomfortably, standing up and pacing the length of the porch. When he stops back in front of Castiel again, the angel reaches up and catches his hand, stilling his movements.

Castiel squeezes Dean's hand, hard enough to hurt. The angel says, words tired, "It's just that we both know that this may have something to do with me."

Dean's eyes squeeze shut painfully, then blink back open. "We don't know anything for sure," he says, tangling his hand with Castiel's as he kneels down in front of the rocker so that he and Castiel are at eye level. It's darker now, and in the distance he hears a hoot owl circling the moss-draped trees.

"I heard you speaking with Sam, earlier. I know your concerns. They're the same as my own," Castiel says quietly, and Dean can see the restlessness in his eyes. The fear.

Dean shakes his head, sighing. "Shit, Cas."

Castiel curls his palm over Dean's cheek, his fingers lingering over an old bruise on his cheekbone. He's quiet for a moment, and in the silence they just watch each other. "I know I told you that bad dreams are nothing to fear," Castiel says softly after a time, his nails scratching at the stubble on Dean's chin. "But sometimes they are. Sometimes dreams have meaning. Sometimes they're trying to tell us something."

Castiel pauses, and the silence grows heavy between them. Dean places his hands over Castiel's lap, and Castiel runs his fingers through the hair on the top of Dean's head, mussing it. "And sometimes dreams are connections to other worlds, other planes of existence. They are places _in between_ ," the angel continues. "Sometimes these dream worlds are pathways between other worlds and other dimensions, much like the crevice where we were trapped in the forests of California."

"Paths between worlds?" Dean says, frowning. "Like the will-'o'-the-wisps?"

"Yes," Castiel nods. "Those were rips…Cracks. Tears between dimensions where the chaos could slip through, where worlds could bleed into each other. Crowley implied that cracks are happening all over. Everywhere."

Dean nods, feeling a certain kind of quiet desperation take up residency in his chest, an ache around his heart. "And you think your dreams are paths to these worlds?"

"No, but I think something is reaching out to me through my dreams," Castiel says. "Using that path to reach me. I'm more open than most humans."

"Something is reaching out to you?" Dean repeats, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. "You think the souls are trying to come back through again? From Purgatory? That they're causing this?"

"I released that darkness into this world, Dean," Castiel says gravely. "Who knows what I left behind. Or what still calls me master."

"We stopped them. Together. Remember?" Dean hisses, fingers tightening their grip around Castiel's thighs.

Castiel is staring down at him, eyes lit with an old fire Dean hasn't seen there in a very long time. "Listen to me, Dean. These things know me. Those fish-guy mutants know me. The other world Claire and I fell into…it _knew_ me. It called to me."

"Screw that," Dean grits out, angry for reasons he can't understand.

"We must be ready to face this," Castiel says, hands resting along Dean's neck, massaging gently.

Dean growls and pulls away from the touch, rubbing his hand across his face and breathing deep. He's angry, and he tries counting to three. But a moment later, he deflates. He sinks forward into Castiel's lap. He rests his head down on Castiel's thighs, and he's shivering despite the heat. Dean feels Castiel rest a hesitant hand against the back of his head, his long fingers running through his hair, stroking circles along the nape of his neck.

They don't say anything else. Dean doesn't know how long they stay that way. He feels like he doesn't know anything anymore.

  


The motel is called _Pink Flamingos_ , and it's only about a mile off the stretch of the main highway outside of town. It has a giant pool shaped in the shape of said flamingos, and garishly bright pink doors that clash with the garishly bright fluorescents of the neon sign advertising vacancies and special rates.

Sam shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, clearing his throat as he approaches Room 14. By the nature of how these things work, he's gotten assigned the task of making nice with Mira, working a specific angle of the case with her while Dean and Castiel follow another lead.

Mira answers the door in sweats and a faded Sleater-Kinney t-shirt. Fresh henna body art wraps up and around her arms and across the back of her hands, a dark maroon swirl of pattered ink that Sam maps with his eyes.

"I didn't think you'd make it," she says, squinting up at Sam and motioning him in when Sam doesn't do anything but stand there and stare. A beat passes, and then Sam coughs with a little embarrassment and enters the small motel room, closing the door behind him. There are two beds, matching queens with tapioca-toned bedspreads. The walls are coral pink and that in and of itself is enough to make Sam question the motel owner's life choices.

"I talked to Bobby earlier," Mira says as they walk further into the room. She pauses at her desk and uncaps a bottle of Maker's Mark, pouring them both an inch into the paper cups she already had set out.

"Really?" Sam says, taking the cup she hands to him. He settles down on one of the doubles and glances around the room. Books are spread out on the desktop, Mira's hand written notes scattered on loose-leaf paper across the other bed.

"I told him we met," Mira says, her soft lips quirking. "And that you were a perfect gentleman when you took me out for a milkshake."

Sam snorts and sips at the bourbon. The burn feels good going down his dry throat. It helps to clear his head. "What did he say?"

"Well," Mira laughs a little as she turns to face him. Her t-shirt pulls up tight against her full breasts as she leans against the wall. Sam tries not to notice the curved line of her figure. She's still smiling when she continues talking. "He assured me you were _no_ kind of gentleman, and then he offered to pop one in you if you get too handsy."

Sam nearly chokes on the liquor, but he manages to croak out something that sounds like a mangled cat yelp in reply. He feels himself going red as he puts the now-empty cup down on the dresser. He clears his throat and says, "Well, that settles that then."

Mira turns around, laughing as she walks to the wall of horror that has defined every hunter motel room Sam has ever come across. Newspaper clipping are spread along the farthest wall, and pictures of the missing cover the adjacent wall.

Sam's eyes track over the headlines. _Mysterious Cults. Swamp monsters. The 2012 Mayan Apocalypse, a year late_.

He sighs and returns to his own research. He's been tracking down the local urban legends and folk tales in the area. The area is rich in Native American folklore, but there's also been a lot of ghost and creature sightings in the swamps over the years.

When Sam looks up after reading for a while, Mira is loading weapons into her duffle. She holds a revolver like a pro, weighing it in her hands. It's an antique that looks at home in her grip when her fingers wrap around the handle, cradling it. She places it down in her bag along with the sawed-off she picks up from the floor.

"How long have you…been doing this?" Sam asks, watching the line of her throat as she downs more of the bourbon. She tenses, a long line of strong muscle stretching from her neck to her shoulders. The henna starts there at her neck, and it winds down below the collar of her t-shirt to where Sam can't see. It probably covers her entire body, and Sam has to stamp down a sudden urge to find out if it does.

She turns to consider him thoughtfully before replying, "Too long. You?"

"My entire life," Sam shrugs.

She's watching him again, and this time her eyes are warm like the sea. "I'm sorry for that."

"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "Me too."

Mira sits down on the bed beside him, curling her arms around her folded legs. "I don't regret my decision to do this," she says evenly. "I want to help people." Her words are thick with conviction, and the lights from the parking lot splash patterns across her smooth cheek.

Sam nods; he doesn't disagree. He fought against this life for so long, but now he knows that it's the only thing he could ever do. He watches her, eyes tracing the long line of tension still present in her shoulders. Beneath the henna, there are bruises on her arms, scrapes and cuts on her jaw. But nothing about her screams _victim_. Survivor, definitely. Like Sam. Maybe that's why Sam finds himself looking longer than he should. At her soft lips and tanned skin, at those long, slender curves. This is a desire he let die a long time ago. His mind is too full of the Cage to fit something like her into it.

Mira shuffles next to him, legs dangling off the bed, and their thighs touch. She looks sideways at him and says, "Bobby's had me check in on Lisa Braeden a few times."

Sam starts at that. It's not what he had been expecting her to say next. He squirms and clears his throat. "You're the hunter he sent to look after her?" he asks, eyes widening, and then he adds quietly, "I don't agree with what my brother did."  
   
Mira runs her fingers over her thighs. "Oh, I don't know. He was trying to protect them, right? Bobby said Dean thought they would be better off never knowing he existed." She stops on a thoughtful frown. "Does your brother really have that low an opinion of himself?"  
   
Sam huffs out a sad laugh. "Understatement of the year. He doesn't see how much good he does, how much the people around him need him, care about him. I mean, we'd all fall apart without him. Me, Cas, and Bobby would all be a mess. But Dean…he takes care of people. Looks after us. It's what he does. He's the glue, you know? It was the same way growing up. He was the glue that held me and my dad together. He took care of us, made sure we ate. Made sure we didn't kill each other."  
   
Mira smiles softly. "You really look up to him."

"He's my big brother," Sam replies, shrugging. "My hero. He went to Hell for me. He practically raised me."

"From where I sit, it looks like he did a good job in the raising department," Mira says, voice low, teasing. _Flirtatious_.

Sam looks at her for a long moment, at the way her eyes hold off the encroaching shadows. He memorizes the soft shape of her nose, her mouth. "Thanks," he says, smiling.

She smirks, then turns so that they're even closer, arms brushing. "What are you thinking right now?" she says.

"That I suck at this," Sam admits. He rubs a palm against the back of his neck and flashes her a soft smile. "Sorry."

"Really, am I any better at this?" Mira laughs, shrugging. "My usual modus operandi is just to get shitfaced, followed by a quick hookup in the alley behind the local dive bar. Hunter dating etiquette 101."

Sam laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah." He stares at her for a moment, and the corner of his mouth lifts up as the words sink in. "So this is a _date_?"

Mira deflects the question with a shrug. "Bobby told me to take it easy on you. You've had a rough year."

Sam sighs, hands between his legs, clasped together. "Bobby should mind his own," he offers quietly. "And…you wouldn't believe me if I told you the kind of year I've had."

"I can believe a lot of things," Mira says, lips titling upward. "I'm a hunter after all."

"Think of the scariest thing you've ever faced," Sam says, his tone serious. "I mean the absolute scariest thing and multiply that by a hundred, a thousand." He stops talking, his heart racing to get out of his chest. "That was my past year."

Mira's hands come to land on his own fisted ones. She squeezes, a gentle comfort. "You don't have to tell me then."

Sam exhales, shakes his head. "I promised you I would, didn't I?"

"You've been pretty good with avoiding it so far," Mira says on a quiet laugh. "I'm good at avoidance myself, Sam. Most hunters are. Our stories are usually tragic, and we don't like talking about them."

"It's just—" Sam swallows the words down again and shakes his head. "Later, maybe."

"If the bad hurts too much, you can tell me something good," Mira says, fingers pressing against Sam's arm.

Sam frowns, biting at his bottom lip. _Something good_. Mira's hands are soft, but there are patches of rough and calloused skin that speak to the fact she uses a gun regularly. "We spent a summer in this area when I was a kid," he says wistfully. "It's one of the only memories I have of my dad just being a dad. He took Dean and me fishing all the time. When I caught my first fish, I was so sad about killing it, that I threw it back in the lake. Dean just ruffled my hair and said it was okay as long as I didn't join PETA, and my dad just looked at me and patted me on the shoulders. Said, 'I'm glad killing doesn't come so easy to you,' and let it be."

Mira smiles, soft and kind. Looks up at him. "I like that memory a lot."

"I don't have a lot of those kinds…you know the good ones," Sam says, his words a little more bitter than he'd like to admit. He watches as Mira runs her fingers up and down his arm before settling her hand along his wrist.

She says into the silence, "You never asked me about how I came to be in the States."

Sam turns to look at her, but her face is lowered, her long hair falling across it. She removes her hand from his wrist and sits back in the bed. She looks at Sam and sighs, so Sam says, "Do you want me to ask?"

"No, but I want to tell you," Mira says, voice even.

"Why?" Sam asks, running a hand through his hair. He leans back in bed and watches her, the way she unfolds her long legs and sprawls them across the bed.

She shakes her head softly, and her hair falls over the slope of her right shoulder, lingers in the pattern of henna that Sam wishes he could see winding across the rest of her body. "Sometimes it helps to talk."

"I read that somewhere," Sam says, huffing out a tired breath. "In one of my self-help books."

Mira doesn't reply, only tangles her hand in her shirt. "During the war, my father…he was killed in a massacre that wiped out most of my town. I saw him murdered before my eyes. I then witnessed soldiers raping and torturing my mother and my aunt. Before they got their hands on me. I was thirteen years old."

Sam chokes back a breath, something hard and painful pressing down on his stomach. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Mira. I'm so sorry."

Mira exhales deeply, pushing her hair back from her face as she looks at him. "PTSD is my life, Sam. I can tell that you struggle with it. I can see it in you, in your brother, and in your friend. Tragedy leaves its marks on a person."

Sam swallows, and it's almost painful to speak. "Yeah, it does."

Mira slides her arms across her chest and moves forward. "My mother and I, and two of my cousins, made it out alive. We became war refugees. We came here to America to build a new life."

She stands up then, walking slowly across the room and refreshing both their cups. She hands one to Sam and says, "I became a doctor to help people. Same reason I became a hunter."  
   
Sam's eyes widen. "You're a doctor?"

"Yes, I was," Mira nods. "I worked with Médecins Sans Frontières for two years. I spent a year working in a refugee camp in Eastern Congo before getting transferred to a small clinic in the middle of the rainforest. One night I saw a shaman exorcising a  _mbwiri_  from the body of a sick child I'd been unable to treat. I saw the demon rise from the lifeless body of the little girl with my own eyes. I knew then that there were some things in the world science did not have the answers for. That there were things in the world people needed protecting from, beside the horror and greed of men."

Sam nods in understanding, and the room feels too hot to move. He inhales a deep breath. Says, "I guess, we're all a bunch of messed-up war survivors of one kind or another."

"Survivor being the operative word," Mira says quietly before swallowing the rest of the bourbon from her cup and leaning back against her desk.

"Don't you think it's too much sometimes? Never feeling safe? Always having to be the one to risk everything?" Sam asks, standing up and walking over to examine the scattered papers on the desk, the empty coffee cups and greasy bags of fast food. The notes from Mira's hunts cover the desktop, listing monsters most people will never know exist. He can just picture Mira in the middle of a fight, swinging her shotgun wide as she takes one out, then another and another.

  


"I know war zones, Sam," she whispers, stepping closer to him. "I know what it's like to fear the things in your own head. Who better to do this job than us?"

Sam nods, and this time he thinks there really is something lodged tight in his throat. He watches as Mira takes the empty cup from his hands and places it back on the desk. He watches as she stands back and peels off her t-shirt, tosses it to the floor. He watches her unclasp her bra, letting her breasts spring free, full, and heavy, and pale. When she pulls off her sweats, he watches the worn material slide over the rise of her ass.

"Wait," Sam says, stalling her just as her fingers work down the elastic of her underwear. "Are you sure…you don't even know me, Mira."

She moves closer and stands in front of him, bare breasts rubbing warmly against his chest. Her hands curl around his cheeks. She asks, voice soft, "Are you a demon?"

Sam sighs, letting his own hands rest on the gentle curve of her bare hipbones, his fingers rubbing against the waistband of her panties. He presses his forehead against her own. "No, but I've done things…" _Demonic_ going unsaid.

"We've all done things Sam," she finishes quietly, and then she leans up and kisses him, her nose bumping against his, her lips soft and wet, searching his out. Sam's mouth opens, and his eyes close, and then he's tightening his hold on her, and he's kissing her back, hard and demanding, his hands digging into the smooth skin of her back as she presses against him. Her hands are tangling in his hair, her mouth moving open and hot across his cheek, warm breath falling against his skin.

He tries not to think of the hundreds of women he slept with when he was soulless: the waitresses, the hookers, and the coeds from the college bars. He tries not to think about the two years of near-normal he tried to create with Jess, and that one year of addiction and power-rush he spent losing himself in Ruby.

Sam picks Mira up and presses her against the wall, and she wraps her legs around his waist and takes his hand and guides it between her legs, past the cotton of her panties, into the warm wet offering of her cunt. For once, Sam stops thinking about his past. Just stops thinking.

"The last time I did this, I didn't have a soul," Sam murmurs against her shoulder, his fingers moving inside of her, sliding in and out to the beat of her body.

"That's too bad," she murmurs against his neck, fingers clawing into his back.

"I'm serious," Sam breathes, hooking his forefinger deeper inside of her and making her gasp, buck up, and whimper. She laughs then, a movement that sends her entire body shivering in his arms and tightening around his fingers. He buries his nose in her neck, smells the faint scent of lavender shampoo, tastes the salty sweat cooling around her neck. He relishes the soft heat of her for a long moment, his cock filling and rising in the confines of his jeans.

"God, Sam," she breathes, bucking up again as he thrusts another finger inside of her. He places her down on the mattress then, his eyes tracing the long shape of her as he takes off his shirt and pulls down his jeans and boxers.

"I really like having a soul for this part," Sam says, climbing up over her and kissing across her belly before placing his head between her legs, his lips grazing the supple curve of her upper leg, the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

Mira whimpers as his fingers take root inside of her again. It feels good to hear the sound, and it almost drowns out the screeching noise of the Cage that follows him everywhere like an old friend. For a moment, his cheek presses against the soft flesh of her belly and he breathes her in.

When she's finally completely naked underneath him, he takes a moment to really look at her: pale against the dark sheets, her body is a long curve that he follows with his eyes and then his hands and then his tongue. He runs his lips over the silver lines of old scars, the soft, complex swirls of her tattoos, and the dark maroon patterns of her henna body art. She's covered everywhere by some mark or scar or inked-in symbol, and Sam wonders if this is her body armor, something that protects her from the damage of the world.

Sam nudges her thighs further apart and presses a thumb against her swollen flesh. He opens his mouth over her, sucking and dragging his teeth along the lips of her cunt, lapping at her clit. Her fingers drag through his hair, her nails catching on his scalp, and her gasps and cries fill his head, and for a time, Sam lets himself drown in her desperate sounds, in her wet heat. This is a different kind of death.

He picks her up, his hands cupping her ass when he finally slams into her. He's yelling as he fucks her, grunting loud and needy, asking for far too much even though she's taking just the same. He bites down into the skin of her collarbone, leaving his own marks on her with every thrust. Mira is tight and hot and so damn perfect around his cock, and Sam can't get enough. She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, holds his head between her palms, and touches his face softly as he moves inside her. His breath catches in his throat when he looks up at her, her eyes alight with a soft humanity that Sam has missed so damn much. She lifts her hips for him, changing the angle, making it tighter, sweeter, perfect. She takes him in so far, he's spilling shamefully fast inside of her, her tight muscles clamping down on his cock as he roots himself deep, filling her with his come.

It's quiet afterwards. Sam watches as the light from the window falls across Mira's naked back, the lines of her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine. He fingers along the designs carved into her skin, his thumb lingering over a scar that looks like an old gunshot wound, another that resembles claw marks. He wants to ask her about them, to learn her story through this shared language of war.

She shivers under his touch, but moves into his hand, not away. "If you're not the Antichrist, then who are you, Sam Winchester?" she whispers after a time.

Sam sucks in a breath, leaving his hand in the dip of her spine, above the curve of her ass. "Do you want to know?"

"You don't have to tell me," she says, her fingers curling around his arm.

Sam swallows and turns to run his knuckles along her spine. The memory of her taste lingers on his tongue, and it makes him feel scared and alive, _real_. Into the silence he says, "My mom died when I was six months old, killed by a demon with yellow eyes. But that's not where the story begins. Not really."

  


Sometime after daybreak, Mira's wrapped herself in the bedsheets, and her back is pressed against the headboard. Her laptop is resting on her thighs, and there's a frown on her face.

Sam steps out of the steamy bathroom, tightening the towel around his waist as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Something new?" he asks, watching Mira's eyes squint at the computer screen.

"I think—" she pauses for a moment, her fingers tapping at the keypad, her gaze widening. "Oh my God, they found a body. And…they found a survivor," she whispers.

Sam's eyes widen, and he moves closer to look at the computer screen she's turning his way. "Damn," he whispers, scanning the article quickly. "You get dressed. I'll call Dean and Cas."

  


The drive through the backwoods is hell on the Impala, but Dean directs his baby through the rocky terrain and mud-caked country roads with expertise. They're following Green Water Trail, one of the older routes through the western outskirts of Everglades National Park. It's still early morning, but the forest is dark and thick all around them, and the sun just barely slips through to the road. Dean understands why there are so many old legends for this place. The shadows here seem to have a life of their own.

Dean spares a glance at Castiel. The windows are down, and a warm breeze is blowing across the angel's face, ruffling his dark hair. He's watching the passing terrain with an unreadable expression.

"I think we're close," Sam says from the backseat, and Dean nods, glancing in the rearview mirror to see his brother and Mira's heads bent over a giant map of southern Florida.

"I think so," Mira confirms, smoothing the creases of the map with her fingers. "According to this, the road that'll take us to La Grange is about ten miles ahead."

"The Everglades are huge," Sam says, voice geeked-out and awed. "Millions of acres. It's no wonder they haven't found anyone until now."

"The girl was fortunate to have escaped her captivity. To have found her way back home," Castiel says from the shotgun seat, his eyes meeting Dean's for a moment.

"Yeah," Dean grunts, before staring fixedly back at the muddy road. He and Cas haven't quite talked about what happened the other night, the fear that they are somehow closer to what's going on than they fully realize.

Dean swallows, hands tightening around the wheel. The scenery changes as they approach the town, thick forest giving way to semi-development, farmland, and flat fields. Downtown La Grange itself is three churches and a grocery store; its main street is a dirt road that leads to houses hidden deep in the green underbrush of the surrounding woods.

Dean pulls up to the courthouse slash sheriff station slash welcome center. A dark-haired man in a tan-colored deputy's uniform is standing by the door, eyeing the new arrivals with curiosity. They had called ahead not too long ago, announcing the arrival of two federal agents, but Dean knows the Impala is still a strange sight.

"You good to take it from here?" Dean asks, looking back at Sam and Mira, both outfitted in their Sunday FBI best. They'll be talking to the local authorities while Dean and Cas track down the family of the surviving girl.

"We got it," Sam smiles, shooting Dean a _stop worrying so freaking much_ look before climbing out of the car with Mira right behind him. Dean watches them as they head inside the station, their shoulders brushing, fingers almost touching.

Dean smirks, thinking _Sammy, you sly dog_. "You think there's something going on between those crazy kids?" he asks Cas, who's staring at the huge, sweeping palm trees like they're speaking to him.

"Their pheromones would indicate as such," Castiel murmurs distractedly, eyes squinting as if he's seeing something in the far distance. "There's _something_ in this forest, Dean."

"Yeah, and it's eating people," Dean mutters, pulling the Impala back onto the road.

According to what they've compiled so far, six days ago sixteen-year-old Tara Malone snuck out of the house to meet up with her best friend, seventeen-year old Ellie Spencer, in the woods outside her home. That night the two girls vanished without a trace, added to the list of people who've gone missing over the last several weeks. Parents, friends, and authorities spent the last few days searching the area, hoping that finding a body could bring some resolution to the families.

If it's the fish-guy mutants that are haunting this neck of the woods, Dean knows the other families with missing people won't get any kind of closure. Those things are like a zombie virus, feeding on their victims and transforming them into something else. Worse case scenario: the missing are still _here_ , in the dark waters of the Everglades' lagoons, waiting and watching. _Hunting_.

Except for Tara, who'd gotten away. And Ellie, who'd been found face down almost ten miles away from her home, dead.

Dean lets out a careful, soundless breath, passing a wide field of tall sawgrass swaying in the breeze. It's another few minutes before they reach the dirt road leading to the house they're looking for. Dean angles the car along the bend in the road, all the while trying to ignore the feeling of unease that's taken up permanent residence in his guts.

"How you doing over there, Cas?" Dean asks, because the angel has been quieter than usual. Their little talk the other night has made things a little difficult for them. Not that their relationship has ever _not_ been difficult.

"We've visited twenty-three towns in the last five weeks," Castiel says, voice gone thoughtful. "I wonder how many more there will be."

"Yeah, me too," Dean sighs, pulling onto the rocky driveway that circles the large overgrown yard, gravel crunching under the Impala's tires.

The Malone house is set far back from the road, shaded by large oaks and cypress trees. Dean eases the car to a stop, parking under the shade of one of the towering oaks. He climbs out, boots crunching loudly over the ground, turning in time to see Castiel swing himself from the passenger-seat, graceful limbs and quick motions. The angel turns his head toward the sky, head titling as he observes the area.

"Feel anything?" Dean asks, coming to stand beside him.

Castiel frowns, shaking his head and meeting Dean's eyes. "Only their grief."

Side by side, they follow the gravel the path to the house, climbing onto the porch just as the front door opens and a middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes appears. She runs a hand through her gray-streaked hair, twisting it into a bun, before pushing the screen door open.

"Sheriff Davidson said I needed to be expecting you," she says before Dean or Castiel even open their mouths in introduction. Her voice is thick with exhaustion as she continues, "You've come to talk to my girl, is that right?"

Dean clears his throat and nods. "Yes, we have. I'm Agent Smith, and this is Agent Jones," he says, nodding towards Castiel. They both flash their badges, a well-practiced maneuver of late, one that even Castiel has managed to get right on every try.

"Come in please," she says, opening the screen door wider. "I'm Laura Malone. My girl Tara is sitting in the living room. Can I get you anything?"

"No, ma'am," Dean says, entering through the foyer and following the woman down the long hall and towards the sunlit family room, Castiel close behind him.

The woman pauses in the doorway before they enter the living room, her eyes waterlogged as they lock on Dean and Castiel. "Please, just help her. Listen to what she has to say," the woman whispers, her hands nervously twisting at her hair, wisps of gray strands falling across her temples. There are worn lines around her eyes, and shadows there that speak of pain and regret. Dean is all too familiar with the signs of grief and sleepless nights.

"I thought we'd gotten her back," she continues, fingers wiping at the tears caught in her eyes. "But she's seen things. She's been through something awful. And I can't reach her."

"We'll do our best, Mrs. Malone," Dean assures, taking the women's hand and squeezing tight for a moment before moving past her into the living room.

"We will find the thing that harmed your daughter and her friend," Castiel says solemnly, and Dean has to smile at that, proud of Castiel's growing "people skills."

The girl is standing by the large bay window overlooking the yard. Through the glass Dean can see the early-morning view of the surrounding countryside, a mist-covered sea of treetops.

"Tara, these two FBI agents are here to talk to you," Laura says from the doorway, hesitating for a moment before leaving them alone to question her daughter.

The girl – _Tara_ – turns away from the window and starts to hum softly, looking them over with an almost serene smile. The girl is short and curvy, with soft, olive skin, deep gray eyes, and wavy black hair that falls down her back.

"Hi Tara," Dean says, waving slightly. Tara doesn't say anything in turn, merely begins to pace, fingers trailing along the window as she moves. "Tara?" he tries again, but there's no response from the teenager. She's still humming to herself, smiling oddly, and Dean knows in that moment that the girl is not all there, that something is missing, her bland expression and vacant eyes only the first signs.

According to the report from the sheriff's office and the ranger station, two days ago Tara had been found bound and left for dead in the swamps; starved and beaten, with a healing head wound and bruising to her back and chest. Dean sees the patches of old bruising around her neck, and he exhales sharply. She was released from the hospital just yesterday, and Dean knows this has to be hard on her. Too soon and too hard to talk about. But they need her to tell them something, anything.

"Dean," Castiel whispers lowly. "The girl won't be of help to us in this."

"Can you sense something? Is she still even human?" Dean asks, careful to keep his voice low. "She doesn't look like a mutant fish-thingy."

"She _is_ human," Castiel says, frowning. "Just severely traumatized. There is a blankness in her mind. She is hiding herself, protecting herself, from the memories."

"Can you fix her? See what's happening inside her head?" Dean asks, before turning back to the girl. "Tara," he tries again, hoping for something, _anything_. The girl continues to pace, her hands twisting together now, her humming growing louder, more frantic.

Castiel steps forward, waiting for Tara to pause her pacing. She stops in front of Castiel, but her eyes are still blank and unseeing. She smiles as Castiel presses a finger against her temple. The angel closes his eyes for a moment, face gone tense. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes and frowns, shaking his head and pulling away just as the girl turns and starts humming again. "I...I don't know," he says, confused. "There is something blocking me. I cannot cure this."

Dean frowns, running his hand over his mouth. "Then we have nothing."

"These fits come and go," Laura says from the doorway, startling Dean. "One minute she's lucid and crying for Ellie, and the next she won't speak or talk. She just looks off into the distance, humming and smiling."

"Has she said anything at all about her disappearance, or Ellie's death?" Castiel asks, turning from watching Tara to gaze intently at Laura.

"Just that she went to meet Ellie, but she can't remember what happened after she left the house," Laura says, her eyes brimming with tears again. "Ellie was always so strange, always putting fool-headed notions in Tara's head."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks, coming closer.

"The poor girl was troubled," Laura says, voice quiet and sad. "I didn't like how close she and Tara had grown. And I knew that shack in the swamp was a bad idea. That's where she was headed the night she was taken. But her daddy built it for her, and she loved it. He felt so bad about having to be gone so often, you see. He was here just this morning. You missed him. He couldn't get Tara to talk either. We just don't know what to do. The doctors say it's trauma…" The woman rambles on, wiping at her eyes, but Dean turns to look at the girl again. She's standing motionless at the window, eyes locked on the line of the trees in the far distance. Castiel stands beside her, his gaze focused on the distant horizon as well.

"Tell me how to find this shack," Dean says, cutting into the woman's soft whimpers. "We need to see where she was headed that night."

  


"Jesus," Mira says, pulling the sheet back over the teenage girl's upper torso. "No one deserves this."

"Yeah," Sam sighs, shaking his head and turning to watch as Mira pulls off her apron and scrubs, and removes one of the pairs of latex gloves from her hands before tossing everything into the biohazard bin.

The local sheriff department is still waiting on the county medical examiner to come in from three towns over, but Mira had enough medical background to do a preliminary examination. With the right forged documents and badges, Sam knows that a good hunter can get their hands on any body. But Sam was impressed by Mira's sheer medical knowledge, enough to rival even the best forensic anthropologists.

"Definitely not an animal of some kind here?" Sam asks, pointing to a long gash running along the teenager's collarbone.

"No," Mira says, eyeing the pale body on the gurney, her expression cloudy. "That was some sort of jagged homemade blade. This girl was sacrificed."

Sam frowns. Ellie Spencer had been young and vibrant in life, with long bones and sharp features, black hair and hazel-brown eyes. In death, her body is lifeless: swollen, pale, bruised, and torn up. Sam examines the cuts that run across her neck, leaving her flesh gaping and blue. There are similar cuts over her belly and upper thighs, deep scarring across her chest. Sam sucks in a breath, wanting to turn away, but needing to get one final look. The girl had been bled out and tossed in a field like trash. Her nails are broken, like she'd been scratching to get free from whatever confinement she had been held in prior to death. The smell of chemicals makes bile rise to Sam's throat, but he swallows it down, chases it away. A long moment passes before he can finally look away, knowing there's nothing more to see.

"What are you thinking, Sam?" Mira asks, and Sam looks up to see her snapping pictures of one of the girl's thigh wounds with her cellphone.

"That we need to find the thing or person who did this," Sam mutters, before stepping around the body and coming to stand behind where Mira's directing her camera. "What are you photographing?" he asks.

"The ritualistic pattern of these cuts suggests some type of summoning spell," Mira says, bending down to examine a cut along the girl's shoulder that was drawn to resemble a crescent with a line going through it.

"So, this is definitely not the fish-mutant things?" Sam asks, feeling somewhat relieved by that.

"Not unless they've taken up ritual sacrifice," Mira says quietly, putting away her phone and moving over to where they've stashed their briefcases. She snaps open the lid on her case and pulls out her wrinkled map, which she unfolds across one of the empty gurneys gingerly.

The map details the Everglades and its surrounding areas. Many of the neighboring counties are covered by mostly forest and marshes, and Sam carefully eyes the patches of green running along the Atlantic Coast to the Gulf Coast. He recognizes the Wilderness Waterway, a 99-mile route that runs along the western edge of Everglades National Park. He remembers going canoeing there on his college trip, and the memories feel even stranger now, a foreign invasion into his consciousness. The Sam he had been at Stanford, innocent and in love with Jess, a bright future ahead of him versus the Sam he is now, a year and a half in the Cage, a demon blood addiction, and starting the Apocalypse all under his belt: these are two different men meant for two different lives.

"Sam?"

Sam starts when he feels Mira's warm hand on his arm. "Hey," he says, meeting her curious eyes.

"You okay?" she asks, brow furrowing.

"I will be," Sam says, and he means it. He moves closer to her, eyeing the patterns of green and blue on the map that make up the nexus of the Everglades' swamps and waterways. There's a black cross at the place where the girls were found, up a hiking trail ten miles east of La Grange.

Mira draws her finger across the map in a circular radius around a nearby area. "I think we need to check out every place within a twenty-mile radius of where the body was dumped."

"You think whoever did this to these girls lives near the dump site?" Sam asks.

"There's not much human settlement in the area," Mira says with a nod. "My guess is that these people are holed up in some cabin or some house near there."

Sam nods because that would make sense. The girls were found in a secluded area of the marsh, off a little-known hiking trail. Sam bites at his lip, trying to recall any settlements he remembers seeing on their first day here.

"And," Mira continues, while rummaging through her notes and newspaper clippings, pausing only to pull out a small rectangle of thin, yellowing paper, which she hands to him. "I was planning on checking these places out while I was here," she explains. "Three old farms were rented out about five weeks ago. All of them within a ten to thirty-mile radius of La Grange."

Sam picks up the article, scanning the story about a retired oilman set on reinvigorating the farming industry in the area. "What caught your eye about this?"

"Mostly the timing," Mira says, bending down to make small notes in the margin of the map to denote the locations of the farms. "A week after the disappearances and the tremors started upstate."

"Definitely worth checking out then," Sam says, mentally mapping out the locations in his head.

"And there's something else you really need to see," Mira says. She turns from the map and begins scanning a thick manila folder filled with clippings and paper. "This is from Tamara's notes. When she was checking out those tremors upstate she mentioned seeing these symbols carved in the barks of several trees in the area. We haven't been able to make heads or tails of them in any of our research. But look at this one."

Sam takes the notebook that Mira hands to him, and he sees the crudely drawn symbols in blue ink, one in particular catching his eye. He takes a deep breath. "Doesn't that look like the mark on Ellie's leg?" he asks.

"My thoughts exactly," Mira says, and when Sam looks up there's a relieved smile on her face.

Sam rubs a hand across his mouth before scrubbing a hand through his hair. "We need to see if Dean's made any headway with the survivor. We got to figure out how this is all connected."

Mira nods, folding her map back up and putting it in her case. She turns to look up at him and bumps his shoulder with her own. "I'm glad we joined forces, Sam," she says with a soft smile.

Sam clears his throat, and he can't help the answering smile that curves across his face. "Yeah, me too."

  


"They loved each other very much," Castiel says quietly, head swinging around to take in the green rooftop of their world, tracking the flight of a blue heron and two ospreys gliding overhead.

"Who?" Dean says, turning his eyes away from watching Castiel watch the sky, wondering if the angel is wishing he could take flight himself. Dean's boots slide into the soft mulch of the trail leading them further into the swamp, and he can smell the river, thick and clean, in the distance.

"The two girls," Castiel says. "The mother didn't approve of their bond."

"Bond?" Dean says, frowning as he turned toward Cas. Castiel watches him for a moment, and Dean feels like squirming under his intense and critical stare. "What?" Dean eventually mutters, flapping his hands in front of him to motion for Cas to continue.

Castiel turns away from Dean and runs his hands along the thick bark of an enormous oak. "She did not approve because they were friends who loved each other the way…lovers do," the angel clarifies, turning another long gaze on Dean. Adding, "The way we do."

Dean clears his throat, angles his head in order to find the only slip of blue sky that can be seen through the canopy of leafy trees. "Well, I see how that…could be complicated," he murmurs, shrugging his shoulders.

"I sense that you still find this a difficult subject to discuss," Castiel says, his tone too all-knowing as he brushes by Dean and moves in front of him on the trail. He turns to Dean and adds evenly, "These sorts of connections still trouble you. Is this why you don't like it when anyone mentions the two of us?"

Dean stares at Cas, who stares right back at him, and Dean has the sudden urge to either punch him or kiss him. _Friggin' angel_. "We're…it's complicated is all," Dean huffs after a moment, then changes his mind to add something he once said to Castiel, in the hours after they foiled Crowley's plan. "But it's simple too." He turns to studying the ground in front of him before refocusing his attention on Castiel again because the friggin' angel is still _staring_ at him. "What? We are!" he snaps, and he knows he sounds defensive, but he can't help it.

"How are we simple _and_ complicated?" Castiel asks, and he seems genuinely puzzled, watching Dean with a bewildered tilt of his head.

So many things rush through Dean's mind in the span of a minute. Nothing he has it in him to say aloud, but he can't stop the flood of rebellious thoughts that haunt him during the hours of the day, all the ways their life is so damn complicated. _Because we both wear the bodies of men. Because a human and an angel aren't supposed to be together. Because Heaven and Hell both want us dead. Because you betrayed me and hurt Sam, and part of me can't forget about that. Because I trusted you, and I still trust you, when I don't trust anyone. Because you get me. Because you see me. Because you save me time and time again. Because I don't deserve you: your faith, your loyalty, or your love. Because I ruin everything I touch, and I will ruin you. Because I have already ruined you._

_Because I want you more than I've ever wanted anything besides seeing my family whole, and safe, and alive._

_Because._

_You're Cas._

It's that complicated. It's that simple.

Dean exhales a ragged breath; he can't look at Castiel, and the only thing he can actually manage to say aloud is: "Because…goddammit, Cas." It comes out sharper than he intends, words bitten off in anger Dean can't identify.

"We've been over that part already," Cas says, closing the distance between them. "We're already damned, remember?" He stops in front of Dean, hands coming up to frame Dean's face. Their eyes meet, but Cas is frowning. "Why do you fear what is between us more than you fear throwing yourself headfirst into an impossible battle?" he asks. "Surely this is not as frightening as war."

Dean bristles, but doesn't pull out of Castiel's hold. The angel's palms are cool against his heated cheeks. "I'm not…afraid," he murmurs, before adding, "And can we not talk about this here? In the middle of a hunt?"

"I admit I still have very little understanding of human emotion," Castiel says quietly, ignoring Dean's request. "But I see yours, Dean. I see your riotous emotions, your constant conflict. Your feelings are so hard to parse, to make sense of. But they are immense and incredibly intense. They overwhelm me sometimes."

"Just shut up, Cas," Dean whispers harshly, tugging Cas closer, pressing their lips together and curling his tongue inside Castiel's hot mouth to get him to just _shut the fuck up_ already. Their kiss is fumbled, messy, and Cas is still trying to argue with Dean, his words spilling out between the meeting of their lips and their clumsy attempts at breathing, but Dean licks them away, drinks down the arguments, the questions. They're both hot and sticky pressed this close together, but Dean kisses Castiel in slow motion, feeling Castiel through his mouth, through his skin, through his bones, down to the center of his grace. Dean wants him so fucking much sometimes, and it makes him feel breathless and wrecked and angry, and so damn young.

Castiel is right, Dean knows. War breaks a person down in a million and one ways. It's terrifying and cruel, made even more so by the fact that you have to face every day not knowing what new battles lie in wait. But this thing with Cas? It's a whole other level of mindfuck, and Dean is just so tired of thinking and questioning and doubting and running. Does everything have to be a battle?

Castiel pulls out of the kiss, but leans his head against Dean's shoulder. "It doesn't," the angel says, as if in answer to Dean's unvoiced thoughts, his voice a rumbled caress against Dean's neck. Dean slides his hands into the back pockets of Castiel's jeans. They'd changed out of their FBI suits in the car before taking the trek into the swamps. Dean draws them closer until they're fitted together, chest and groin and legs and feet. They're quiet for a time, and Dean can hear the birds crying overhead, moving from branch to branch.

"I wish I could be more…" Dean pauses because he can't put the words together.

Castiel reaches up and cups Dean jaw, tilts his head up to look at him. "You don't need to be anything more than what you are," he says, and he presses their lips together again. The kiss is slow and warm this time, soft and easy. The wind that moves against them is comforting, and it smells like wet earth baked in the heat of the sun. Castiel slides his hand beneath Dean's layers, the movement practiced and familiar by now, and he rests his palm perfectly over the brand on Dean's shoulder.

"Yeah," Dean says, just to say something. His hands feel rooted in Castiel's back pockets, rooted in Castiel's energy.

Castiel nuzzles his neck, and Dean just breathes. He thinks, _Because, you're Cas_.

  


The clearing was once a sawgrass marsh, and the soil is still soft underfoot, covered in long yellow blades. About a yard away, they find the small pond Tara's mother had directed them to, its waters muddy brown with silt and algae. The shore is soft and boggy as well, and Dean has to watch his step, reaching out to grab Castiel's shoulder when he almost trips on the huge root of an oak. The air is thick and humid, rich and pungent, with barely a breeze to stir it.

Castiel stiffens a few feet from of the pond, eyes cutting across the distance to the mound of land hidden by the tangled, weedy underbrush and grassy shallows. The angel moves forward without warning, sliding to his knees by the edge of the water.

"Dude," Dean hisses, swatting away a fly that's been buzzing around his head. The sun is hot, but Dean feels his arm prickle with sudden awareness. He edges forward, but Castiel turns around and shakes his head.

"Dean, stop," he says, voice sharp and commanding.

"What do you sense?" Dean whispers, obeying without question. He kneels down and looks around, seeing only the thick edge of marshland.

"This is the place," Castiel says, head tilting toward the trailhead that splits off from their current path into an overgrown clearing.

The noon humidity seeps into Dean's skin, makes him feel restless, nervous. "Is the thing still here?" he asks, hands feeling out his gun.

"I don't think so," Castiel says, standing up and making his way toward the path again. "But follow behind me just in case."

Dean's set to argue that, but Castiel shoots him a stubborn look, and Dean goes along with the plan, albeit reluctantly. They walk slowly, without saying a word, until they come to the center of the clearing.

It's then that Dean sees what they've been searching for. He walks forward, his eyes fixed on the red-brown earth, on the set of footprints leading further inland. He follows them to the center of the glade where he sees the burnt-out ruins of what must have been a small structure – a shed or a hut.

"Tara's shack," Castiel clarifies, words coming out rougher than gravel in the silence of the clearing.

"Or what's left of it," Dean sighs, running a hand over his eyes. _Shitshitshit_. They can't catch a freaking break these days. The air here still smells like smoke, reminiscent of a camp fire. Large pieces of the shack are still smoldering, the ashes and embers mixed in with the pile of burnt wood. Dean looks around them, sees nothing but tall oaks and cypress, a dense wood with dark soil and darker secrets. He shakes his head, crouching down to take a closer look at the prints on the soil, examining the folded blades of grass and disturbed weeds. If he's reading these tracks right, someone had been dragged out of the shack. "Damn," he says quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Castiel walking the perimeter of the burnt-down shack, head lowered to examine the scorched ground. He moves forward and kneels down in front of what must have been the doorway, peering closely at the remains of the structure. "Something was here," the angel says, voice low. "Its power residuals are everywhere."

"What do you think it was?" Dean asks, following his path and kneeling down beside him. He reaches down and grabs a handful of the blackened soil. He sniffs it and finds it moist, rich; it still smells earthy despite the lingering, pungent scent of smoke. He says, "There's several set of footprints leading here. The girls weren't the only ones out here recently."

"I think—" Castiel stops, hands touching what was once the shack's door handle and pulling back as if burned.

"Is it still hot?" Dean frowns, turning to look at Castiel's hands.

But Castiel has gone stiff as a board, eyes bright as they stare at the wood, unseeing. Dread curls tight and heavy in Dean's chest. "Cas?" he says, but the angel's gaze is cloudy and distant, like he isn't even there any more.

"Fuck me," Dean whispers, slipping to his feet. He turns abruptly, heart beating wildly, and that's when he notices the other changes. The swamp has gone completely, eerily still. No sounds of the river or birds or insects. The air is heavy with cold, an iciness that has him shivering when he should be sweating. Dean reaches for his gun, swallowing against the wrongness he senses everywhere. The pressure in the air builds, and it feels as if something is about to ignite, or like the moment before a tornado hits.

Dean's legs are suddenly too heavy. Slowly, he turns around, eyes sweeping across the empty glade. There's nothing here. Even the egrets that once covered the trees like giant white leaves have gone. The temperature continues to drop, and Castiel is completely and utterly unmoving.

"Cas," Dean hisses again, but he gets no response. He takes two deep breaths. And then another. A third just because he needs it. _Breathe, Winchester_ , he thinks.

Dean moves to Castiel's side. The angel appears frozen, his back rigid. Dean places his hand on Castiel's shoulder, gently nudging him. "Cas," he repeats, softer. "Come on, man. Snap out of it."

Rather than coming to, Castiel starts rocking back and forth, and he starts freaking humming, and _fuck no_ , Dean grips him tighter at the shoulder and shakes him. "Cas," he urges again, and Dean can't help that his voice shakes a little around the angel's name.

Dean holds his breath, but Castiel doesn't give any sign he's heard. A moment later Dean's contemplating dumping Cas into the pond when the angel shoots up, powerful and graceful, landing on his feet in a quick motion and throwing Dean off of him in one solid, fluid move. Dean lands on his ass, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Feeling bruised and winded, Dean watches, wide-eyed, as Castiel moves away from him, his long legs circling the clearing, his eyes still unseeing. He's mumbling something now, chanting something softly, but Dean can't make out the words. It takes Dean another moment to realize that Castiel is caught in one of his trances, but Dean has never seen the angel space out like this when he's not sleeping and lost in one of his weird nightmares.

"Cas!" Dean yells, and Castiel stops moving, pausing in place, his eyes closed and head tilted up toward the sun. That's when Dean sees something snap out, pouring over the trees like a dark tidal wave. _Wings_. Huge fucking wings. Dean's eyes widen, and it's then that he recognizes the wide stretch of Castiel's shadow wings, shading the glen's green backdrop of trees. They're so dark they block out the sun.

  


"Cas?" Dean chokes around his friend's name. He stumbles to his feet, feeling shaken and breathless as he moves to stand in front of Castiel. He watches as the angel's wings continue to expand and unfurl for several feet in both directions. He hears the wings beat and flutter and flap, and the murky shadows move and quiver as if they were physical things, shifting with the wind, turning the surrounding world into a flickering mass of opacity.

Castiel opens his eyes then, and they are flames of blue light. He stops humming, and his gaze bores right into Dean's. "Dean," he whispers, and Dean doesn't wait another moment before snapping into action. He races forward and presses his hand to his mark on Castiel's chest. Castiel shudders and falls forward, Dean catching him in his arms. All around Dean, shadow feathers fall to the earth, a shower of darkness and light.

Castiel is heavy in his arms, and Dean feels the light tickle of feathers trailing all around them. "Cas, look at me," he barks, command thick in his words.

"Dean," Castiel says hoarsely, turning wide, dazed eyes on him.

"It's okay, man," Dean tells him, because he can't think of anything else to say right now. Castiel's shadows flutter around them, and Dean buries his face in Castiel's arms, drawing him closer. The angel is still entirely too stiff, body hunched up and drawn tight and taut in a defensive stance, battle-ready. But the longer Dean holds him, the calmer he gets, finally exhaling deeply and loosening under Dean's arms.

"You were out of it, man," Dean explains, voice thick.

Castiel shudders and pulls out Dean's arms. He knits his eyebrows and for a long time he's perfectly still, this time not from a trance, but from confusion. "The darkness was there. Pulling at me," he whispers.

  


Dean bites back a curse. For a second, it feels like his hearts stops, and his chest constricts so tight he can't breathe, can't move. "Darkness? What darkness?"

"It felt like the darkness at the center of the world," Castiel whispers, stepping back, and Dean's eyes follow the wide sweep of Castiel's wings, how they mimic the velvet texture of the blackest night. Castiel inhales deeply, and his wings move as he moves, shifting the sunlight with them.

"You have to do a better job of explaining this to me, man," Dean says, throat suddenly too dry. "It was like one of your sleepwalks, but freakier."

"The taint surrounding the shack must have triggered something," Castiel says slowly, brow creasing as he considers the distant wreck of the structure. "I still feel the power humming there, tickling my fingers where I touched it."

"Why can I see your wings?" Dean says, distracted again by the way the feathers shush together, the shadows tangling with each other, twitching with the breeze. "I haven't been able to see them since right after Purgatory."

"I feel caught between the planes, as I did then," Castiel says, voice ragged as if he is straining to lift a heavy weight. "This happened in California, in that _other_ place too. Right now, I cannot manifest fully in one or the other." He stops talking, takes a deep, shuddering breath. "That place…that shack…I think it was a crack."

"A crack?" Dean's head snaps up from watching the dark shape of Castiel's right wing curve around his side. "Like we talked about before? A crack between worlds?"

"I think something was trying to come through here," Castiel confirms, moving stiffly back toward the smoking remains. "Or someone was trying to bring something through."

"Sonofabitch," Dean whispers, swallowing thickly, his mind skipping over every possibility for what they could be dealing with. He turns his eyes back to Castiel, and he watches how the angel moves cautiously around the ruins, the trail of shadows that comprise his wings billowing behind him like a cape.

Heavy moments pass without another word. They stand there watching the smoldering remains, and Dean really wants a fucking drink. Make that three.

"We can't stay here," Castiel says after a time, wings arcing out around him as he turns away from the scene. "This place is unstable, and if there is a crack it could open at any moment. We could fall into it, be lost to it."

Dean groans, shakes his head. "What the fuck is even going on, Cas?"

Castiel looks up at him, and the skin around his eyes is drawn tight. There is something in his expression that has Dean thinking of the darkness and the pain and the loneliness he felt during the year in Cicero when they were separated. When all Dean wanted to do was drown himself in a bottle and forget, forget, _forget_.

"I don't know," Castiel says softly, and his wings shimmer at that.

"We are so freaking screwed," Dean says, feeling suddenly tired. He takes a breath; exhales. Says, "We have to figure this out, Cas."

"We will," Castiel says, and his words are a promise. There's a fierceness to them that makes Dean smile, remembering the feeling of having Castiel stand beside him in impossible battle after battle. Dean remembers all the long roads they've traveled to get to this place.

"Let's go, Dean," Castiel says quietly, and he holds out his hand for Dean to take. Dean steps forward because this is Cas and he trusts him; he's always trusted him.

Dean takes Castiel's hand and clasps it tight while the angel draws him closer. His thick shadow wings spread so wide it's like night come early. Dean leans against Castiel's body, and the feel of Castiel around him is like nothing else he's ever known. When the wings snap out and stretch, crowding around them, every hair Dean has stands on end, and his skin feels patchy with gooseflesh. It's like the soft shock of static electricity, and Dean has to stop himself from jumping because it feels like the sky is trembling with an electrical storm, and the air has gone silver. But Castiel is heavy beside him, warm and solid and so fucking close. Dean stops breathing when Castiel slides his wings around him, like a shadow cocoon. In that moment Dean understands that this is something Castiel does routinely, but Dean has never been able to see or feel.

Not for the first time, Dean looks at Castiel and sees something older than the oceans. He swallows so hard it hurts, but Castiel takes Dean's chin between his index finger and forefinger. He meets Dean's eyes, and for a moment the angel's focus feels like a summer storm, hot and wet and necessary.

Dean feels something heavy pressing itself behind his eyes, but he clears his throat and turns his head away, blinking to force it back. "Let's go," he says, and his voice is cracked, roughened.

Castiel doesn't say anything. He simply pulls his wings back before he spares a final look at Tara's ruined shack. "They loved each other," he says. "Tara and Ellie."

Dean looks at the blackened wood and thinks of the poor girl watching this forest with vacant eyes. "Sometimes that isn't enough to save you."

  


Sam watches as Dean unfolds the map on the hood of the Impala, bending over it to trace their location. They're close to the river, Sam knows that much. He can hear the sound of flowing water rushing over stones, the churning rapids feeding the murky waterways nearby. He leans back against the giant trunk of a tree, turns his eyes to Mira, who is picking through the nearby underbrush. She uses her shotgun like a machete, cutting through the long grass and the crawling vines of the sprawling mangrove, gumbo limbo, and mahogany trees.

"There won't be much out this way when it comes to settlement," Dean is saying. "But we're nearing the last of those houses."

Sam digs through his backpack to find his Nalgene bottle. He sucks down a big gulp of the warm water before scratching at a mosquito bite on his hand. Sam sighs; he hopes they have more luck at this house than they've had at the last two. They'd reconvened a couple of hours ago to touch base, and Dean had jumped on Mira's suggestion to check out and possibly surveil the homesteads within a short radius of where Tara and Ellie were found. Sam can tell Dean's frustrated by all the unanswered questions, frustrated by whatever's going on with Castiel. Frustrated, worried, and close to cracking. Sam knows his brother, and he knows Dean might put on the facade of holding it all together, but it's an act, a well-constructed and too-often-practiced one.

Sam puts his water bottle away and sucks in another deep breath as he heads over to the Impala. Castiel is staring at the giant map like it's an alien bug liable to jump him at any moment, and Dean is tracing their route with a pink highlighter. Sam sees that they're moving parallel to the Okeechobee Trail, which is long and winding, and he knows they only have a few hours of daylight left to get this done. They decided to take back routes onto the property, hoping for the element of surprise by avoiding the main road in. That of course means tracking through miles of swamp.

"Dean?" Sam says, resting his hand on his brother's shoulder. "We should wrap it up after this, man."

"I know Sammy," his brother breathes out, running his hand over his neck and scowling down at the map. He checks their route one more time before folding the map up and dropping it back down into his duffle bag.

Sam turns when he feels Mira's hand at his back, rubbing along the dip of his spine. Sam's not really sure what's happening between them, but he knows right now it feels good, and he hasn't had many things feeling this good in a long time. "Hey," he says, smiling down at her. "How's the trail looking'?"

"We're good to go," she says, hitching her rifle over her shoulder, scouting obviously complete. Sam can't help but reach out to move a stray strand of hair off of her slick forehead. Mira smirks up at him at that, letting her fingers run up and down his spine, a quiet gesture.

When Sam finally looks up away from her, he finds Cas smiling at him with the sort of saccharine look he gets whenever he watches Bobby's dog sleeping in his lap, and Dean is right there beside him giving Sam two thumbs up. _Assholes_ , he thinks and points to the trail ahead of them. "Are you ready or what?" he grunts, wanting the attention taken off of him.

"Let's hit it," Dean says before flashing Sam and Mira another big cheeky grin and taking the lead, Cas following close behind him. Sam and Mira bring up the rear.

For the next hour, they make their way south, following an off-the-beaten path hiking trail and then a thicker, wilder patch of swampland that Sam can tell hasn't been tended to in a long time. The trail is littered with debris from past storms that have rocked the region, loose branches and overgrowth that, taking a cue from Mira, they hack through with the barrels of their shotguns. Some of the roots here grow as thick as human bodies, and they're so intertwined Sam starts to think of the entire swamp as one living creature. It's comforting and eerie at the same time.

Some time later, they're making their way through a patch of thick hardwoods leading to what looks like a more-developed area. "We're here," Dean says from just ahead of Sam.

At the end of the forest is a small, gurgling stream that divides the homestead from the denser swampland they spent the past few miles hiking through. Sam breathes in a sigh of relief, eyeing the rushing water of the stream and the property beyond.

"There is something…" Castiel begins, pausing from where he'd been examining the ground. He cocks his head sideways, as if listening to something no one else can hear.

"Something what?" Dean asks, his hand expertly loading his sawed-off as he takes his place beside Castiel. They are all now kneeling down at the edge of the property, eyes tracking across the distant landscape.

" _Something_ ," Castiel murmurs, sounding frustrated, and gripping his crossbow tighter in his hand. "I cannot tell what."

"Should we maybe get closer – get a better look to see if anyone is inhabiting it?" Mira asks, crawling around Sam and tugging down her gun.

"No need," Sam whispers, his eyes catching movement from the rear of the farmhouse. "This is the right place."

"How do we know?" Dean asks, sounding skeptical. "The other two farmhouses were a bust."

"It's not everyday you see people with painted sigils on the middle of their foreheads wearing white robes and unloading a minivan, is it?" Sam asks, smiling smugly as he brings the group's attention to the far corner of the tree-thick backlot, where a group of painted, robed residents are in fact unloading supplies from a van and into a barn.

"I'll be damned," Mira whispers, and Sam can hear the excitement in her voice.

"Good call," he tells her, bumping his elbow with hers.

Mira shrugs, but her smile widens. "It was too much of a coincidence not to check them out."

"But white robes? Really?" Dean says, eyeing the distant group with total disdain. "I mean couldn't they be more original?

"It's a classic choice," Sam quips.

"And a minivan? Seriously?" Dean continues, not bothering to hide his disgust for the cult's choice of vehicle.

Sam reaches for his Colt and rolls his eyes at his brother. "Dean," both he and Castiel say at the very same moment. Of course Sam snickers, and Mira is laughing softly at his side, shaking her head as well.

Sam quiets, but Castiel continues to chide Dean. "We shouldn't be concerned about their dress or choice of transportation," the angel says, his tone clipped. "There are people inhabiting that house who are trying to raise something very dark."

"I know, dude," Dean sighs, eyes dancing as he looks at Castiel. "I just thought they'd be more original."

With a considering look, Cas peers down at the house. "This group must be doing something very original. I can't sense what power they seek."

"That symbol we found on the girl," Mira says suddenly, moving around to Sam's side, her voice carefully low. "I see it painted on the back of one of the men's robes."

"Means we definitely have our right evil cult," Dean says, a soft growl in his words. "Maybe we can find out what the hell they did to Tara…and," he stops, turning to look at Castiel. "And everything."

Sam frowns, knowing he's soon going to need to talk to Dean again about whatever's happening with him and Cas, whatever has Dean crawling out of his skin with worry. "What now?" he asks instead, turning to glance back the way they came. It's more than five miles of swamp between their current location and the Impala. If they do anything tonight, they need to be able to make their stand here.

"We watch and we wait," Dean says, grabbing his binoculars out of his duffle and settling down for a stakeout, salt-rounds, holy water, and bag of trail mix at the ready. He sighs and looks toward the distant house. "We can get a closer look when it gets dark."

Sam nods, pulling out his backpack before turning to eye the robed figures once more. Finally a lead, something to grab onto. The relief is palpable. He hands Mira a bag of Zapp's potato chips he picked up when they were in Louisiana, and watches as she works on sketching out the symbol in her notebook.

The woods around them sit quiet and waiting. Sam has nothing better to do than follow their lead.

  


Grayson Farm is as far away from the center of town as you can get before you reach the dense jungle that forms the central core of the Everglades. From a distance, in the sunshine of a spring day, the place might look quaint and cozy, might even be the place at the top of every couple's list of romantic weekend getaways. In the moonlight it looks like a tombstone poking crookedly up from the ground, and it makes Dean shiver, makes him think of the stone monuments and mausoleums at Stull. Even the trees that surround it are forbidding, long branches pointing at him, giving him the finger as he hunkers down cautiously below windowsill level on his final approach, before straightening up and pressing himself to the weather-beaten wood siding.

He counts to ten, waits to hear a serenade of barking that never comes. "No dogs at least," he whispers, watching as Castiel looms up on the opposite side of the window, his eyes glittering in the dark. The angel's wings have long since been tucked back into their proper plane of existence, but Dean finds himself missing the dance of light and shadow they brought with them.

Castiel smiles at him, a gleam of white, before he chances a quick dart of his head around the window frame. In the dim light glowing from the interior, Dean sees the angel squint, before he reaches a hand up to rub the side of his fist on the glass. "They don't clean," he observes in a whisper, before he leans closer and peers for longer. "Nothing. It looks derelict." He cranes his head then, frowning.

_But there's light_ , Dean thinks. He glances up, but he can't see power lines anywhere. "There's something going on in there," he says, his intuition sparking. "There's no power out here, and they didn't just go in and leave the lamps—"

Dean stops abruptly at Castiel's raised finger, and the angel cants his head and frowns. Says, "I can hear something…"

Around the back then, maybe, where Sam and Mira are scouting. Dean chews his lip, makes a decision. "Stay put, watch the front in case we flush anything out of there. I'll see if Sam's found anything."

He's just turning when Castiel catches his arm, pushes him up against the wall. His eyes are huge and intense as he steps up close, and Dean grins and plays along, despite the circumstances. "Personal space, Cas. We've talked about this."

Castiel presses his brow to Dean's, rubs the tip of his nose against Dean's nose before there is the grip of fingers at the back of Dean's neck, and then the hard press of lips followed by the wet slide of tongue. And then a sighed out breathy moan that is so damn hot Dean feels his jeans grow fractionally tighter.

"Be careful," Castiel growls intensely as he pulls away. "I insist."

The yard is quiet, seems peaceful, and _what the hell_ , maybe they both need this after what happened at the ruined shack earlier. Dean streaks a hand up to tangle his fingers in Castiel's hair, tugs him back in for another one, even harder than the first, fifteen seconds of a struggle for dominance that leave him breathing hard when he breaks it off. "I can insist too, you know," he smirks, before he turns and starts picking his way stealthily around the side of the building.

The night is even more pitch black now that he's away from the front of the building, and he takes the precaution of hooting once or twice, hears a mournful echo of the sound in reply. The calls were something Dean and Sam first started doing the summer they spent here, playing hide and seek in the woods, and it's something they've carried into adulthood on hunts just like this.

Dean sees motion in the bushes a few feet away, the flash of long legs and dark hair. _Mira_ , he notes, and she motions Dean forward to meet her. "We think they've got something going on in the basement," she reports. "There's a window low down, and we can hear something that could be chanting."

Dean nods, following her around the back of the house to see his brother's bulk squatting at ground level.

"Window's boarded up, and I can't really see anything," Sam notes softly. "A mix of men and women, can't tell how many…I'd guess at more than five, less than fifteen."

Dean crouches down, tries to see through the cracks between the lumber slats. From somewhere in there he can hear the steady drone of words, a hard, guttural dialect he doesn't recognize, and yet…he does. He frowns, gets down closer and rests his ear against the wood and concentrates.

"What?" Sam has his Bowie knife ready, and he's glancing about them, alert and watchful.

"I've heard that somewhere…" Dean murmurs. "Not all of it. Some of the words. I don't know what it is, but it's familiar."

Sam casts his eyes down, considers him. "Think Cas might know what it is?"

Dean ponders it for a moment, before a flashback to Castiel's trance in the woods floods him with apprehension. "He's watching the front. Mira can you go fetch—"

Before he has the chance to finish, the wood splits and explodes outwards with a crash, and he's suddenly horizontal, face rasping its way across gravel and splinters, his mouth filling with dirt as he's dragged viciously in through the window, only to be hauled partway back as Sam gets his wits about him sufficiently to grab his belt and heave.

Dean can hear his brother's frantic shouts, but Sam's voice is growing distant. The hand around his neck is clamped tight enough to asphyxiate him, and a sharp cuff to the side of his skull has him seeing stars even while he tries to scan the interior, see what's going on, candles, the scent of herbs, a makeshift altar, sigils curling and looping around the walls, blood and entrails smeared, and what looks like a gutted corpse piled messily in one corner. There are figures milling about chaotically, cloaked in white robes, and shrill sounds of protest that don't sound human. At once they throw their heads toward the ceiling, chanting louder, and the words echo off the walls of the room.

And then suddenly there is Castiel, half-tumbling down the steps into the basement, his face set and tense, his crossbow already flying up to loose its bolt. The room goes silent instantly, and all eyes turn to him. The hand around Dean's neck slackens and falls away, _oxygen at last_ , and Dean gulps it in, his heart rate spiking up to the red zone as it overcompensates. He slithers the rest of the way into the dugout room, and his knees buckle, planting his ass on the cement while Castiel unleashes the wrath of a pissed-off half-angel of death taking things way too seriously. He's a blur of fluid movement almost too fast for Dean to track as he whirls, ducks, and feints their cloaked attackers, and there are a few hazy, impressed seconds during his swim to the surface of orientation when Dean thinks he's watching a surreal, lethal ballet.

The air still feels heavy from the interrupted ritual, thick with a power that fills every corner of the room. In one inhuman move, Castiel grabs one woman and two men, their white robes billowing out as he sends them flying across the room, smacking into the far wall. Dean shakes his head, still too stunned to move. Sam slams down beside him then, nudges him sharply, a question in his eyes, and Dean motions a hand over at the mêlée. Sam smiles, barrels in and sends their opponents toppling like bowling pins as Dean shakes some more clouds out of his brain and catches his bearings enough to notice that the altar is folding in on itself, collapsing. He watches the chain reaction play out with an immaculate sort of logic, candles rolling lazily along the slope of the tabletop and settling down onto the shabby, torn upholstery of an old couch strewn with newspapers and take-out cartons. It's literally fuel for the fire, and flames spark greedily, belching out the first oily black tendrils of smoke.

Dean forces himself up onto his feet and then lurches forward. "Fire!" he croaks as loudly as he can manage through his bruised throat. _Another fucking fire_.

The world goes still and twelve or thirteen heads swivel simultaneously to study the impending inferno briefly, before the white sheets stampede for the steps and thunder up topside. After a split second of gaping at each other, Sam flings himself after them and Castiel strides across to Dean, grasps him at the scruff of his collar and pulls him close.

"I said to be careful," he snaps icily, as he herds Dean ahead of him and up the steps clumsily.

Outside the night air is cool and crisp, and Dean sucks it in gratefully between coughs and hacks as Castiel drags him across to the nearest tree and props him against the trunk. Dean slides down it gracelessly, rests his head on his bent knees.

He feels Castiel's hand fist the longer hair at the top of his head and raise his face up. The angel looks amused now, and his tone is milder. "Must you do things like that?" he asks. "It worries me."

Before Dean can answer, the crunch of boots sounds, and low, murmured voices. Mira waves as she and Sam emerge from the trees, walking close together, loose-limbed and easy in each other's company in a way that makes Dean feel abstractedly pleased even though his neck still aches like a motherfucker.

"We lost them in the woods," Sam says ruefully as he pulls up and drops down to his haunches beside Dean. "Once the trail of white sheets went cold, that was it." He gestures at the smoldering house. "I don't guess we'll be getting much intel now. You okay?"

The place is already a quarter alight, burning energetically. "Old wood," Dean husks out. "Place is a fuckin' tinderbox." He rubs at his throat, winces. "Bastard shook me by the throat." He glances up at Castiel's concerned huff. "Save the mojo, Cas. This isn't an emergency."

From above them there's a loud yawn, and Dean can't help leering at Sam. "Sounds like you didn't get much sleep last night," he says, directing his eyes from Sam to Mira pointedly. "Something keep you up?"

Mira regards him impassively, arms folding across her chest. "Your throat sounds sore, Dean," she suggests after a moment, smiling. "Semen is good for that, you know. It's a well-known folk remedy."

Dean supposes he deserves it, and the stifled sound of mirth that erupts from his brother in response. He snorts. "We should get going," he manages, little more than a loud whisper now. "That must be lighting up the sky for miles. We don't want to be here when the cops do eventually arrive."

Castiel fastens a hand around his bicep and supports him as he stands, and Sam falls into step beside them, Mira a few feet behind as they head for the woods.

"You said you thought you might recognize the chanting those guys were doing?" Sam asks him as they reach the stream separating the house from the dense swampland.

Dean leans further against Castiel, who's watching him curiously. "Chanting?" the angel asks, intrigued.

It clicks into place then: the sound of Castiel's rough voice mixing with the memory of the sounds tumbling from the basement of the house. Dean _has_ heard the chants somewhere before, and the realization of _how_ and _when_ sends a cold shiver down his spine.

"Dean?" Sam says, and Dean blinks hard and turns to meet Sam's questioning eyes.

"I don't know man," Dean huffs, almost stumbling over his own feet before Castiel catches him again and rights them both. Against him Cas is firm and warm, solid. "I thought I did, but I'm not sure now," he continues, shrugging.

Sam frowns, nodding. "We'll try looking up what you can remember when we get home. See if we can trace anything phonetically."

Castiel's arms wrap tighter around Dean's waist, and Dean looks over to meet the angel's all-too-knowing gaze. "Not now, Cas," Dean mutters at the unvoiced question. He feels trapped in too-tight skin. Feels like his head may burst with the pressure building up.

"We _will_ talk later then," Castiel says, breath falling warmly on Dean's ear.

"Yeah," Dean mumbles, pressing himself closer to Castiel's body, needing a little extra strength for the shitstorm he knows is coming.

In the distance there's a sharp flash and boom, the force of which sends them all ducking to the ground in protective huddles. The rush of heat and air flung their way is thick in the already humid night. Dean turns his head and looks back toward the house. The fire is roaring now, flames licking up the entire roof, and it's burping billowing clouds of dark smoke into the starlit sky. Pieces of wood and shards of glass rain down in the distance.

"Motherfucker," Dean curses on a breathless whisper. He turns to look at Cas, Sam, and Mira, who are all watching the fire with wide eyes. "There's no fucking way we're salvaging anything from that," he adds.

Coughing, Sam nods, looking crestfallen. "We can just hope that the things we saw and heard are enough to find something," he says.

Dean turns when he feels Cas lifting him to his feet again. "Are you alright?" the angel asks, thumb running along Dean's bruised neck.

Dean nods, but standing is an effort on his suddenly weak legs. His head is pounding, and the smoke has him feeling nauseous.

"You want to stay in town longer and check it out still?" Sam asks, from where's he's helping Mira to her feet.

Dean hesitates. "We should keep moving," he says, twisting around to look at the smoky horizon. "Figure out who these guys were and what they wanted. We can give it another couple of days and hit the road after."

Sam nods, and Dean drags in a heavy breath, mouth dry with adrenaline and nerves. The walk back to the car has never felt longer, never felt more terrifying. In the distance, the fire lights up the entire sky.

  


Dean wakes to thunder, and the heavy roll of it shakes the room, prickles his skin. He yawns, stretching out his legs under the thin sheet, and when he moves he feels Castiel's body – long and solid and warm – molded against his side.

Dean closes his eyes, lets the feeling sink in. The rain is loud as it hits the roof, but locked away in the dark rooms of this old house, it feels like they're hidden from the storm. Things had been difficult when they got back from the farmhouse, too many questions still remaining. He'd been able to avoid Castiel's careful prods so far, but Dean doesn't know how long that will last.

Dean reluctantly pushes himself out of the bed and makes his way to the bathroom. He's still half asleep, and he bumps into chairs and coffee tables, and almost trips over his and Castiel's mud-crusted boots by the door. Leaning against the sink in the bathroom, he splashes cold water on his pale face and sucks in a calming breath. Counts to three. Rinse and repeat. There are red bruises around his neck and shoulders from when he was dragged into the farmhouse. He touches the swelling gently, but the painkillers he took earlier seem to be working their magic.

On his way back to bed, he slows his pace as he pads through the long, shadowed hallway, listening to the sounds of the house all around him: the groans of old wood settling, the tapping of the rainwater against the windows ( _tip-tap-plat_ ), the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. He knows Sam and Mira are still up; he can hear their voices as they whisper from the living room. Soft laughter, a gentle kindness, friendship, and maybe something deeper. Dean smiles, a blast of warmth hitting him in his chest. It's one of the first nights in a long time he's woken to the sound of laughter and not to soft cries of pain.

Back in the bedroom, Dean watches Castiel toss in his sleep, the angel's lean body twisting around the floral-patterned sheets. The sheets are old and faded, the cotton rough from hundreds of washings. Dean wants to wrap himself back in those worn sheets, back around Cas.

But.

Dean doesn't know what's going on. He doesn't know how to keep Cas, and everyone else, safe. He doesn't know what safe even means anymore. In Hell, Dean cried for Sam with every single breath he took. Sometimes he screamed louder than the other tortured souls and the gleeful demons wailing all around him. Next to Sam, there were smaller things that filled his mind as well, flashes of memories, of feelings that helped him to fight off decades of Alastair's pain. Things like the memory of body-warm sheets after he'd been walking around a winter-cool room for too long. The taste of John's homemade apple cider, and the smell of tobacco smoke that use to linger in his leather jackets. The times when Bobby took Dean out to the park to work on his fly ball, feeding Dean's dreams of baseball stardom. And there are memories from when Dean used to roam the darkness of this old house, checking in on Sam and John as they slept, making sure they were still where he last saw them. Dean feels the need to do the same right now. Cas is here, lying in bed, but he's far from safe.

Dean doesn't remember Castiel in Hell, but there are moments when he watches Castiel, and he feels like he's known him for lifetimes on end, as if his soul has already mapped the entirety of Castiel's grace, like this is just one of many ways they've met and come together, and broken apart and found each other again _after everything_.

Dean watches a band of moonlight flicker across Castiel's right thigh as the angel shifts in bed, his tousled hair tangling across his pillow. Dean eyes the dark stubble covering Castiel's chin, and he has the urge to run his lips over it, just to feel the patchy roughness, the prickliness he's come to associate with Castiel.

Dean watches the dip of Castiel's lower back, the long bow of his spine, as he moves his hips under the blanket. When Dean licks his lips, he recalls the taste of the angel's skin, the bitter taste of sweat, saliva, and come. The play of light across Castiel's bare back is almost too much, the smooth swell of his ass almost too perfect, and the roll of his shoulder muscles look as if, even in his sleep, his wings are stretching and arching toward the sky. Dean wonders if Cas flies in his dreams.

Dean settles back on the mattress, and he runs a hand over the bumps of Castiel's spine. Castiel makes a noise in his sleep, something soft like a sigh. Dean splays his hands across the wingspan of the angel's back, and he imagines that the shadows falling across Castiel's skin are in fact his wings, that somehow Dean can feel and see them again.

"Cas," Dean whispers, just as lightning flashes across the night sky, a punch of sharp sound and light that scatters across the room.

Castiel sucks in a breath and blinks awake, eyes wide and white in the darkness of the room. His head is smashed against the pillow, but he twists his agile body quickly around until he's on his back, and his hair is a dark, tangled nest around his head.

"Dean?" Castiel asks, brow furrowing. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Dean assures, moving closer, letting his bulkier frame cover Castiel's own as he leans over him, fingers digging deep into Castiel's biceps. "I just," he stops, closes his eyes and reopens them. He leans in and nudges his nose against Castiel's neck. "I just needed…" _You_.

Castiel breathes in deeply, hands coming up to wrap around Dean's back and drag down the curve of Dean's spine. "I'm here," he whispers, voice rougher than usual with sleep. Dean slides his lips along the curve of Castiel's chin, while the angel's fingers skitter down Dean's back, settling against his hip.

"We should talk," Castiel says, voice low and steady.

Dean sucks in another deep breath. Outside the wind is picking up, creating a soft moaning sound as branches beat against the side of the house. They curl tighter together, Castiel's hands moving over Dean's shoulder blades, Dean running his lips along the shape of Castiel's collarbone. Sometimes Castiel is human in all the ways that Dean is familiar with. A rough language of taut muscle, hard bone, and thumping heartbeat. Dean presses his mouth over Castiel's heart, against the raised flesh of his scar; he can feel the drumbeat rhythm of his life.

"Dean," Castiel whispers, and lightning brightens the room again, highlighting them in a shimmer-shine flash of brilliance.

"I know, Cas," Dean says, and then he's moving his mouth away from Castiel's heart, tongue swiping slow over his nipple, teasing the small, hard bud until Castiel sucks in shuddering breath after breath. Dean makes his way down Castiel's chest, lips rolling over the ridges of his ribcage, sucking gently at the marred skin, pressing small kisses over the marks he leaves behind.

Castiel goes still beneath him, his only movements the rise and fall of his chest. Dean moves down the lean plateau of Castiel's body, biting along the sharp jut of his hipbones before dipping further down, lips riding the widening spread of Castiel's legs. Dean kisses the soft inner skin of Castiel's thigh, and there are hot whispers of _please Dean, please_ falling from Castiel's lips the further Dean moves, kissing and sucking until he's nudging his face against the warm heat of Castiel's balls, his tongue slowly following the soft crease between thigh and groin. Castiel groans, fists a hand in Dean's hair, his hips thrusting forward. Dean slides his hands up Castiel's legs until his palms are tight against his hips. His breathing quickens as he mouths over the smooth satin of Castiel's balls, up along his thickening cock, his tongue moving wet and slow.

Castiel moans, his legs drawn up at an angle to let Dean in further, to let Dean wrap his mouth around the crown of his cock, to go down on him in a slick, easy slide. Dean takes Castiel in slowly, his cheeks hollowing out, his tongue curling around the fat length of his dick. The rain drowns out the sound of their heavy breathing, sending loud pelts against the window and the roof. Dean's hands slide down and around Castiel's hips, fingers gripping the warm muscles of his thighs as Cas buries himself fully inside of Dean's mouth.

Dean sucks Castiel down like he's starving, and Castiel feeds him wantonly, tilting up just right, rocking his hips gently so that he's working himself in and out of Dean's mouth in careful strokes. When the angel rolls his hips again, Dean's hands curve possessively around Castiel's ass. Working his way down along the warm, dark cleft, Dean skirts one finger inside Castiel's hole, a movement that sends the angel's tight ring of muscle clenching around Dean.

Dean pushes in another finger, and then another, and Castiel starts bucking, releasing broken little gasps of breath as his cock slips in and out of Dean's throat. Dean twists his three fingers at once, corkscrewing them in and out as Castiel body writhes beneath him. He sucks Castiel down one more time as he spreads him wider with his fingers, pushing deeper, knuckles sliding inside the warm tightness. Castiel is thrashing, moaning, and fisting his hands into the messy sheets, shouting _DeanDeanDean_ before he comes, bitter and hot down Dean's throat. His long fingers grab at Dean's hair as he fucks Dean's face with lazy strokes of his softening dick.

When Cas pulls out, Dean's mouth is raw and tender. He licks Castiel's come from his lips, and he pushes himself up over Castiel, lining their cocks up, and stroking his own until he's shooting and panting all over Castiel, watching his spunk drip down the angel's belly and seep into the dark hair surrounding his soft cock. Spent, Dean falls forward, his hand bracing himself on the mattress beside Castiel, the other reaching for the sheet to wipe away the mess only to be caught in a vise-like grip by the wrist.

Unsure, Dean flicks his eyes up, finds himself drowning in Castiel's steady, bottomless gaze.

"Is your throat feeling better, Dean?" the angel says with a hint of a smile, as he so damn slowly pulls Dean's hand down to smear the fingers through the come streaking his skin, before bringing them up to his mouth and snaking his tongue out to lick at the slick fluid. His lashes finally flutter closed on a deep moan as he closes his lips around Dean's fingertips and suckles them greedily.

The noise alone has Dean dizzy, has him gasping out, "Fuck," and then there is the nudge of half-hard flesh against his thigh, and the world spins as he's flipped over onto his back. Castiel straddles him, mimicking the position Dean himself was just in, his cock newly rigid and erect. Castiel tilts his head, might even raise an eyebrow as he swipes his own hand across his belly. "My refractory period is brief, Dean," he whispers. "Some might call that an advantage."

Dean definitely would, and he can't tear his eyes away as Castiel runs his fingertips along the spine of his dick, closes his fist around it and strips himself, movements achingly deliberate, his thumb awarding the cap a leisurely caress on every upstroke. He licks his lips as they curl into a half-smile, and his eyes don't stray from a locked-tight focus on Dean's face until it starts to happen. Dean maps it all, watches how Castiel's eyes blink and widen, how he bites his bottom lip before his mouth goes a little slack. Castiel chokes out a low, hoarse whine as his shoulders hunch in, and then Dean feels the spatter of warm liquid paint his chest.

"Cas," Dean says hoarsely, dragging the angel down so that Castiel is lying half across him as he shivers out the aftershocks. Dean pushes his nose against damp skin of Castiel's neck, breathes him in deep. Thinks, _God, this shouldn't feel so damn good_.

Outside the storm is in full force, sheets of heavy, hard rain battering the windows, deep rolls of thunder crashing like bombs, shaking the old timbers of the house. Dean shivers, and Castiel's arms and legs curl around him. Dean thinks he feels the soft flutter of wings as the angel kisses up his neck, whispers soft words in his ears. Castiel turns to face him fully, his eyes shining in the dark. Dean brushes his hand across Castiel's cheekbone, holding his gaze.

"The chants you heard…they are the same ones I've said in my sleep," Castiel said, voice guttural and tired, but certain.

"Yes," Dean says, needing to just voice it, admit it. His heart skips and stumbles along in his chest. "But it doesn't mean anything. Okay?"

"Or it could mean everything," Castiel says, and Dean just… _fuck it_. He pulls Castiel in, crowds them together in the center of the hot, messy bed. He drags the rough sheets around them, their naked bodies locking together.

Dean sucks in a deep breath. "Earlier you asked me why this is so complicated _and_ so simple," he whispers, hands working themselves into the grooves of Castiel's angular hips. He presses his forehead against Castiel's shoulder for a moment, his lips skittering over his mark across Castiel's heart.

"You don't have to explain," Castiel tells him quietly, fingers running through Dean's hair as he tilts his head down so that he can meet Dean's gaze.

"I need to," Dean says, sighing deeply and looking up at the angel. "Truth is, Cas, you scare the fuck out of me, man." He can feel Castiel flinch at his words, his muscles tightening.

"Because of what I am?" the angel asks somberly, and he sounds pained. "Because of what I did?"

"No, no," Dean whispers, moving a comforting hand across Castiel's cheek. "Not because of any of that. But because of what I am, the things _I_ do. I fuck things up, Cas."

"Dean," Castiel says, voice rumbling softly in something like admonishment. "That's never been true."

"I told you once that you had the wrong guy," Dean says, remembering the first time he felt himself falling apart in front of Castiel, when they were both in the dark and trying to find their way out, when he let his walls down and let Castiel know that he wasn't the man they all thought him to be. _I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me._

"You were wrong then," Castiel says, curling his palm around Dean's cheek. "And you're wrong now," he whispers, pulling Dean closer so that their lips meet, their bodies falling together against the mattress. Castiel's mouth is hot, wet, and open against Dean's own. His hands slide down to cup the sides of Dean's face, and Dean loses himself in the taste and heat and feel of him.

"Cas," Dean whispers, the only word he trusts himself with in times like this. Dean's fingers claw into Castiel's back, legs wrapping around Castiel's hips. He threads his hands through Castiel's hair, touches his lips against the soft line of his shoulder.

Dean doesn't know what will happen tomorrow, the next day, or the next. He doesn't know if he will be able to keep anyone safe from what's coming from the darkness.

The storm has already arrived, made landfall. And all any of them can do from here on out is hold on. Ride it out together.

  


Dusk comes, but it's still humid and thick, a sweltering, low pull that slows the mind and stirs the blood. Sam stomps down the porch, eyes taking in the stretch of open sky. It's been storming for the past two days, a constant cinema of light and sound. Sam would watch from the porch in the late evenings, breathing in the sweet-smelling rain, following as lightning danced across the heavens and thunder moved in the background like an epic motion picture soundtrack. Tonight the air is still thick with faded ozone and the pungent whiff of blooming wildflowers.

The break in the rain is good to see, the evening sky clearer than it's been for days. But the earth is still soaked underfoot, standing puddles of rainwater where the frogs bathe. Sam's boots slip and slide in the thick mud as he approaches the parked Impala. Dean's sitting on the front bumper, nursing a Heineken. Sam smirks, joining his brother, sliding his ass against the cool metal.

Dean hands him a freshly opened bottle of beer. "Drink up," he says, slouching low on the hood. He seems engrossed in watching the lightning bugs blink across the yard. Sam remembers running around and catching fireflies with Dean on warm summer nights when they were younger. Sam would put them in mason jars, and sometimes he'd have so many that he could create just enough light to read by.

They sit together for a while, the sounds of their breathing lost to the frogs, crickets, and cicadas battling for prominence in the overgrown brush and the dense spread of trees. The heat is slow to fade, but the stars are bright even in the dusty fade of the evening.

"We head out tomorrow?" Sam asks, swiping his shirt at the dew dripping off his beer bottle.

"We should," Dean says, but Sam can hear something like hesitation in his voice. Before Sam can call him on it, Dean cuts in with, "Is Mira heading out too?" He waggles a brow and tosses a knowing smile Sam's way.

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's expression, but he nods. "Yeah, Colorado calls. She promises to let us know what the other hunters come up with."

Dean nods, takes a pull of his beer as his gaze returns to the yard. "Remember that frog you caught out here and didn't want to get rid of? I think you named him Kermit."

"I did not," Sam says, chuckling softly. Okay, so maybe he did. But he was eleven, so sue him.

"Man, you were such a geek that summer," Dean huffs out on a fond laugh, taking another sip from his beer before sighing heavily. "I thought you were going to be a botanist or an insectologist or something when you grew up."

"Entomologist," Sam corrects with a smile. He laughs again, adds, "I can't believe you remember that."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "How could I forget? You would go around memorizing the names of all the plants and all the insects like you were going to be tested on them."

Sam smiles, remembering bits and pieces from that year. He'd gotten this thick library book that listed all the different insects and wildlife that inhabited the Everglades. That summer he'd plotted a two-man adventure to find and identify them all. Dean had indulged him, trekking with him into the swamp, mostly there to watch Sam's back and protect him from all the creepy "man-eating gators" hungry for little Sammy's fleshy weshy tummy wummy (Dean's words, _not_ Sam's).

Sam breathes out, and for once the good memories feel stronger than those of the Cage. Lucifer's taunting voice is nothing compared to Dean's young voice, teasing and kind and full of childish joy. Sam doesn't like to remember much from his childhood. Too many fights with his dad, too many nights spent crying into his pillow. Too many times watching Dean come home carved up and beaten bloody, telling Sam _I'm okay. It's just a scratch. Go back to sleep, Sammy_ , when Sam knew it was far worse than that.

Lucifer liked to dredge up Sam's worst memories, those old fears that kept him awake as a child. He dug around inside Sam's head until he found all Sam's weaknesses and held them up to the light of Hell. Sam shakes his head, trying to keep Lucifer's mocking sneer at bay. Instead he looks over at Dean and remembers his brother's face from his childhood, always watching him with a steady smile. Dean has those same big elf ears, crooked eyes, and a sarcastic smile. He's filled out now, but back then he was skinny as a beanpole, which made his bowlegs stand out even more. His hair would bleach blond in the summer sun, and he'd have freckles for miles and miles. Sam remembers his teenage brother like it was yesterday, eyes bright, his big mouth always open around some joke or crude remark.

"Dude," Sam laughs, holding his belly so he wouldn't shake himself too hard. "You used to be a funny-looking kid."

"Shut it, shortstop," Dean mumbles, opening up another beer bottle. "The ladies didn't have any complaints," he adds, grinning crookedly.

"Speaking of the ladies," Sam says, guessing that this is as good a time as any to awkwardly transition the conversation. "What's Cas have to say about you and the ladies?"

Dean frowns, eyeing Sam dubiously. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sam begins, clearing his throat, knowing that this is not something Dean is usually up to talking about. "Are you two…monogamous?"

Dean coughs-spits-chokes around a sip of beer, and Sam reaches out to pat his brother's back as he sucks in a calming breath, trying not to choke around his own spit. "We are so not talking about this," Dean mutters, voice raw-sounding after his coughing fit.

"I just mean," Sam says quietly, looking down at the wet ground between his boots. He shrugs. "You seem serious, and I know that's not something you usually do."

Dean sucks in a deep breath, rubs a hand over his face and leans further back on the hood. They are quiet together for a while, and it's like the frogs start peeping louder.

"We're serious, okay," Dean mutters, eyes looking everywhere but at Sam. "I wouldn't mess around on Cas, man."

"Does Cas know that he's _it_ for you?" Sam asks, a soft smile curling around his lips as he looks at his brother's flushed face, almost as red as the dusky sky.

"I swear to God, Sam, I will beat you silly with this beer bottle if you don't stop digging," Dean mutters, glaring at him and looking completely and utterly deadly.

Sam just can't help himself. "So…wholphins, eh?"

"Sammy."

"A star-crossed interspecies love story for the ages. Nicholas Sparks could not invent this stuff," Sam says, laughing gleefully at Dean's growing scowl.

"Seriously, I hate you so much right now," Dean growls, knocking Sam's leg with his own.

"Look," Sam says, sobering up. He pats his brother on the arm and smiles, all innocence. "I'm happy for you, man."

Dean sighs, shakes off Sam's hand with a reproachful squint. "And I'm happy for you and…Bond chick."

Sam rolls his eyes, fighting to hold back a smile. " _Bond chick_?"

"It's that accent, man," Dean says on a grin. "She sounds like a Soviet spy. Plus she's badass. Totally too much for you to handle."

Sam knocks Dean off the hood and laughs when he almost falls on his ass in the mud. "You totally deserve that," he says.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, settling back on the hood and pushing Sam for good measure. Sam knocks his shoulder against Dean's one more time, and it feels like they're kids again, knocking each other around just for the hell of it, sitting close under the night sky, waiting for Dad to come home with a bucket of KFC and a case of Barq's root beer.

"But seriously, man," Dean says, breaking the quiet. "I like Mira. I think she could be good for you."

Sam shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know if I'm ready for anything right now. I'm messed up, you know. I could have some Hell flashback at any moment. I'm not stable."

"I get that," Dean says quietly. "More than you know."

"I know you do," Sam nods, picking at the hole in the knee of his jeans. "When I was soulless, it was just sex. Mindless, emotionless sex. It didn't mean anything. But I want it to be different with her. She…"

"You want it to be like it was with Jess?" Dean asks softly.

Sam frowns, chest aching at the thought. "She's not Jess. And I'm not that same Sam. I've…" he stops, shaking his head, not sure what he's trying to say.

"Been to Hell and back," Dean finishes.

"Yeah," Sam says, exhaling hard enough to ruffle the strands of hair falling over his forehead.

"And you want it to be different with her," Dean says, speaking the words as if it's his own confession.

Sam smiles, because maybe it is. "Is that how you feel about Cas?" he prods.

Dean doesn't say anything, just shrugs.

"You want it to be different with him," Sam continues, understanding. "You want it to be _real_."

Dean covers his face with his hand and mumbles, "Always with the chick-flick moments, Sammy."

"You brought it up, dude," Sam says with an innocent shrug, feeling so damn good right now; he wants this night to go on and on. "And hey this isn't any less awkward than the sex talk you gave me when I was 14."

Dean groans. "That was a painful experience I never wish to repeat."

"You didn't even say anything, dude," Sam says, feeling sorry for his teenage self all over again. "You threw a box of condoms at me and told me not to get Nell – _who was just my lab partner by the way!_ – pregnant."

"Only after you told me you already knew everything because you read a book about it!"

"Not my fault I paid attention in health class," Sam huffs, flashing Dean a stubborn grin.

"Such a freak," Dean mutters, eyes dancing as he pushes Sam off the hood of the car again.

"Takes one to know one," Sam laughs, stumbling to his feet and situating himself back at his brother's side.

They quiet down again, trading a beer bottle back and forth for a while, listening to the soft rhythm of the swamp. When Sam eventually hands the empty bottle back to Dean, he swallows thickly, turning to face his brother. "You gonna tell me what's going on with Cas?" he says, finally getting up the courage to ask.

Dean closes his eyes and reaches down to set the empty bottle on the ground. He bites at his bottom lip for a long moment, fisting his hands together before sucking in a deep breath and meeting Sam's eyes. "Those chants we heard back at the farmhouse…I recognized some of the words from when Cas has nightmares. Cas is…it's all connected somehow. I don't know how, or why, or what the fuck any of it means. But it's connected to Cas."

The night suddenly feels too wide, too dark, too unexplored, and Sam imagines himself getting sucked under the rolling tide of darkness. "Shit, Dean," he manages to whisper. "I was afraid something like this might be the case. But dude, we'll figure it out, okay."

Dean laughs, and it sounds so bitter and broken. "Sure. But at what cost? Losing Cas again?"

Sam's breathing faster as he presses his hand against his brother's shoulder and repeats, "We'll figure it out. Together. I'm with you and Cas, man. Till the end."

"Such a girl," Dean huffs after a long moment of silence, but he flashes Sam a warm look, and Sam returns it, and in that moment Sam remembers Dean again from the past, all big arms and legs, and that one month in eighth grade when Dean had his hair styled like Zach Morris until Dad came home a few weeks early and made them both get military buzz cuts.

Something presses heavy against Sam's chest; some memories remain, soft and brilliant and almost too sharp to hold. His hand falls to his jacket pocket, feeling the familiar bump under the fabric. Maybe this is the right time…maybe. Sam's been waiting, watching, hoping for the right moment. He looks over at Dean, and the soft gleam in his eyes speaks of their gilded days, their better days.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, clearing his throat, feeling nervous even though he knows he has nothing to feel nervous about.

Dean smirks at him, bumping Sam with his elbow, sharp and teasing. "Look man, I'm not discussing _The Notebook_ with you anymore tonight. Just forget it."

"Just shut up and give me a minute," Sam mumbles, sinking his hand into his jacket pocket. His palm closes around cool metal, and he lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

Dean watches him curiously. "Sam, what's up?"

"I thought you might…maybe. I would like you to have this back," Sam says, voice shaking slightly as he pulls the chain from his pocket and holds it up in the air so that it sways back and forth.

  


Dean's mouth opens and closes several times, and he looks stunned stupid for a moment. "You kept it?" he asks, but there's a smile just creeping around the edges of his mouth.

"Yeah," Sam says, shrugging and turning his eyes to the carved face and bull-like horns. "I grabbed it out of the trash. I wanted you to have it then, and I want you to have it now."

"Sammy," Dean huffs, but he's smiling, wide and big, and Sam's chest feels warm just looking at him. Dean holds out his hand, and Sam drops the amulet into his upturned palm. Sam watches as Dean curls his fingers around it tightly and looks up at him, eyes bright. "Dude," he whispers.

  


Sam flashes back to the first time they did this, a ratty motel room in Broken Bow, Nebraska, Christmas Eve, 1991.

_Dad lied to me. I want you to have it._

_Thank you, Sam. I…I love it._

"Thank you, Sam," Dean whispers, and for a second Sam thinks he hears Dean's childhood voice echoing those exact same words. It's like in that moment Dean is again that same thirteen-year-old kid who stole presents just so Sam would see something under the tree.

Dean's smiling in pleasure as he places the bronze amulet back around his neck so that it rests against the silver charm Bobby gave them over Christmas.

"Dean," Sam says, voice soft. "You lost faith back then. Cas too. But remember, in the end, _we_ won. We can do it again. We will figure this out. Have faith in us."

"Team Free Will rises from the ashes," Dean says, laughing softly. "One ex-blood junkie, one dropout with six bucks to his name, and Mr. Comatose over there," he pauses, pointing to the house. "Sleeping on the couch."

"I'll drink to that," Sam smiles, leaning back against the hood as Dean tosses him another beer.

Night's come at last, and the stars spread out above them. Sam closes his eyes against the faraway shine. For once, there's no Hell, no Heaven, and no Purgatory to haunt the night. There's just the riot of life unfolding all around them, the woods and the river, a snapshot of their childhood and their past.

A roadmap to their future.

  



End file.
